Classic Poem

From dewy dreams, my soul, arise,
—From love's deep slumber and from death,
For lo! the trees are full of sighs
—Whose leaves the morn admonisheth.

Eastward the gradual dawn prevails
—Where softly-burning fires appear,
Making to tremble all those veils
—Of grey and golden gossamer.

While sweetly, gently, secretly,
—The flowery bells of morn are stirred
And the wise choirs of faery
—Begin (innumerous!) to be heard.