The Day-Dream
The thronged boughs of the shadowy sycamore
Still bear young leaflets half the summer through;
From when the robin 'gainst the unhidden blue
Perched dark, till now, deep in the leafy core,
The embowered throstle’s urgent wood—notes soar
Through summer—silence. Still the leaves come new;
Yet never rosy—sheaved as those which drew
Their spiral tongues from spring—buds heretofore.
Within the branching shade of Reverie
Dreams even may spring till autumn; yet none be
Like woman’s budding day—dream spirit—fann’d.
Lo! tow’rd deep skies, not deeper than her look,
She dreams; till now her forgotten book
Drops the forgotten blossom from her hand.
