Poems (Terry, 1861)/Rêve du midi

by Rose Terry Cooke

RÊVE DU MIDI.

   When o'er the mountain steeps
   The hazy noontide creeps,
   And the shrill cricket sleeps
    Under the grass;
   When soft the shadows lie,
   And clouds sail o'er the sky,
   And the idle winds go by,
With the heavy scent of blossoms as they pass;

   Then, when the silent stream
   Lapses as in a dream,
   And the water-lilies gleam
    Up to the sun;
   When the hot and burdened day
   Stops on its downward way,
   When the moth forgets to play,
And the plodding ant may dream her toil is done;

   Then, from the noise of war,
   And the din of earth afar,
   Like some forgotten star
    Dropt from the sky;
   With the sounds of love and fear,
   All voices sad and dear
   Banish to silence drear,
The willing thrall of trances sweet I lie.

   Some melancholy gale
   Breathes its mysterious tale,
   Till the rose's lips grow pale
    With her sighs:
   And o'er my thoughts are cast
   Tints of the vanished past,
   Glories that faded fast,
Renewed to splendour in my dreaming eyes.

   As poised on vibrant wings,
   Where his sweet treasure swings,
   The honey-lover clings
    To the red flowers:
   So, lost in vivid light,
   So, rapt from day and night,
   I linger in delight,
Enraptured o'er the vision-freighted hours.