The thousand muffled noises of the dawn:
The drowsy stir of birds, surprised from sleep,
The faint applause of leaves above the lawn,
The bleat, far off, of closely-cabined sheep,—
Are like dim perfumes blowing down the stairs,
All sweetly prescient of the coming day,—
And less like sounds, than little tender airs
Gone softly shod and happily astray.

The later sleepers, where the garden lies,
Such heavy-lidded ladies as the rose,
Hear the soft tumult with a dim surprise,
There, where an early wind as roundsman goes,
To rouse each languid, over-sleepy head,
And shame them that they lie so long abed.