( " Quand le livre ou s'endort. " )

What time dull books have drowsed my mind at even,
What time my room's hot air's nigh stifling grown,
What time the town's monotonous hum hath striven
All day to hush all spirit of song with moan, —

What time the countless cares of toil or pleasure
Which make the narrow circle of our days,
Have touched once more, at length, their utmost measure,
Until to-morrow's dawn renew their race, —

No moment my poor soul, released, delayeth;
But, as a bird might flutter to its nest
After long capture, blithely so it strayeth,
Though wingless, weak, on yet diviner quest.

To the woods it hies, and there, deep in the gloaming
Just thrilled with the moon's first melodies and rays,
Finds Reverie, loved comrade of its roaming
Through what delightful faery-haunted ways!