Chapter 18 No.18

To a Lady Sleeping

O thou whose fringèd lids I gaze upon,

Through whose dim brain the wingèd dreams are born,

Unroof the shrines of clearest vision,

In honour of the silverfleckèd morn:

Long hath the white wave of the virgin light

Driven back the billow of the dreamful dark.

Thou all unwittingly prolongest night,

Though long

            
            

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