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siesta.
Well said!—Noisy world,
Custom's weedy throng,
Here I give the go-by—
For they match not in my dreaming
With your wing and song.
Custom's weedy throng,
Here I give the go-by—
For they match not in my dreaming
With your wing and song.
Hearken, little bird!
When God, round your heart
Laid those mottled wings,
He gave you heavenly dreaming
For your life-long part.
When God, round your heart
Laid those mottled wings,
He gave you heavenly dreaming
For your life-long part.
I, my wild translator
Of that upper bliss,
On my doubtful pinions,
Fanned through some strange dreaming,
Ere a dream like this.
Of that upper bliss,
On my doubtful pinions,
Fanned through some strange dreaming,
Ere a dream like this.
