  Ere dawn a spirit took my hand, And once again, a joyous child, I roamed an unforgotten land Of orchards fresh and mild. How fair the apple-blossoms were! How cool the long-delaying breeze! Where, half-asleep, I heard the stir And hum of happy bees. Clear in the meadow ran the brook, From pool to pool, in liquid grace, A glass o’er which I bent to look At my enmirrored face A girlish face, with placid brow All-innocent of care and hate,— With eyes I cannot fathom now And lips undesecrate. My sister’s laugh, my brother’s call— So would the morning larks rejoice! But nearer, dearer far than all, I heard my mother’s voice. Her voice? Or did a music break Across the street’s harsh sea Whose thunder deepens? Christ! I wake To miserable me! |
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