Young Love lies sleeping
        In May-time of the year,
Among the lilies,
        Lapped in the tender light:
White lambs come grazing,
         White doves come building there;
And round about him
         The May-bushes are white.

Soft moss the pillow
         For O, a softer cheek;
Broad leaves cast shadow
        Upon the heavy eyes:
There winds and waters
        Grow lulled and scarcely speak;
There twilight lingers
        The longest in the skies.

Young Love lies dreaming;
        But who shall tell the dream?
A perfect sunlight
        On rustling forest tips;
Or perfect moonlight
        Upon a rippling stream;
Or perfect silence,
         Or song of cherished lips.
Burn odors round him
         To fill the drowsy air;
Weave silent dances
         Around him to and fro;
For O, in waking,
         The sights are not so fair,
And song and silence
        Are not like these below.

Young Love lies dreaming
         Till summer days are gone,
Dreaming and drowsing
         Away to perfect sleep:
He sees the beauty
         Sun hath not looked upon,
And tastes the fountain
         Unutterably deep.

Him perfect music
         Doth hush unto his rest,
And through the pauses
         The perfect silence calms:
O, poor the voices
         Of earth from east to west,
And poor earth's stillness
         Between her stately palms.
Young Love lies drowsing
         Away to poppied death;
Cool shadows deepen
         Across the sleeping face:
So fails the summer
         With warm, delicious breath;
And what hath autumn
         To give us in its place?

Draw close the curtains
         Of branched evergreen;
Change cannot touch them
         With fading fingers sere:
Here the first violets
         Perhaps will bud unseen,
And a dove, maybe,
         Return to nestle here.