Page:Records of Woman.pdf/283

Rh

sleepest—but when wilt thou wake, fair child?— When the fawn awakes in the forest wild? When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of morn? When the first rich breath of the rose is born?— Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies Too deep and still on thy soft-seal'd eyes, Mournful, tho' sweet, is thy rest to see— When will the hour of thy rising be?

Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark—