Before your light quite fail,
Already paling star,
(The quail
Sings in the thyme afar!)

Turn on the poet's eyes
That love makes overrun--
(See rise
The lark to meet the sun!)

Your glance, that presently
Must drown in the blue morn;
(What glee
Amid the rustling corn!)

Then flash my message true
Down yonder,--far away!--
(The dew
Lies sparkling on the hay.)

Across what visions seek
The Dear One slumbering still.
(Quick, quick!
The sun has reached the hill!)



O'ER THE WOOD'S BROW

O'er the wood's brow,