Classic Poem

The wind murmurs round,
As the bough gently heaves;
And I sleep at the sound
In the shade of the leaves:—

My thoughts gently glide
Where the sweet zephyr bloweth,
As a light vessel floweth
Away o'er the tide;
And my senses are drowned
In the bright dews of heaven;
And the rapture is given
That so seldom is found
Where mortality grieves,
As I sleep at the sound
In the shade of the leaves.

'Mid the flowers still I rest:
If by chance I awaken,
Pain and sorrow have taken
Their flight from my breast;
They cannot be found
In the heart of the dreamer.
There is nought but the tremor,
The tranquil rebound
Of the bough, as iTheaves,
While I sleep at the sound
In the shade of the leaves.