The Day-Dream

Dreams even may spring till autumn; yet none be...



 by Dante Gabriel Rossetti



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-sheathed 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 on her forgotten book

Drops the forgotten blossom from her hand. 




The Sin Of Detection 




SHE bowed her face among them all, as one 

By one they rose and went. A little scorn 

They showed—a very little. More forlorn 

She seemed because of that: she might have grown 

Proud else in her turn, and have so made known 

What she well knew—that the free—hearted corn, 

Kissed by the hot air freely all the morn, 

Is better than the weed which has its own 

Foul glut in secret. Both her white breasts heaved 

Like heaving water with their weight of lace; 

And her long tresses, full of musk and myrrh, 

Were shaken from the braids her fingers weaved, 

So that they hid the shame in her pale face. 

Then I stept forth, and bowed addressing her. 




The Mirror 




SHE knew it not:—most perfect pain 

To learn: this too she knew not. Strife 

For me, calm hers, as from the first. 

'Twas but another bubble burst 

Upon the curdling draught of life,— 

My silent patience mine again. 

As who, of forms that crowd unknown 

Within a distant mirror's shade, 

Deems such an one himself, and makes 

Some sign; but when the image shakes 

No whit, he finds his thought betray'd, 

And must seek elsewhere for his own. 




































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