A CHILD'S NOONDAY SLEEP. Because you sleep, my child, with breathing light As heave of the June sea, Because your lips' soft petals dewy-bright Dispart so tenderly ; Because the slumbrous warmth is on your cheek Up from the hushed heart sent, And in this midmost noon when winds are weak No cloud lies more content; Because nor song of bird, nor lamb's keen call May reach you sunken deep, Because your lifted arm I thus let fall Heavy with perfect sleep; Because all will is drawn from you, all power, And Nature through dark roots Will hold and nourish you for one sweet hour Amid her flowers and fruits; Therefore though tempests gather, and the gale Through autumn skies will roar, Though Earth send up to heaven the ancient wail Heard by dead Gods of yore; Though spectral faiths contend, and for her course The soul confused must try, While through the whirl of atoms and of force Looms an abandoned sky; Yet, know I, Peace abides, of earth's wild things Centre, and ruling thence; Behold, a spirit folds her budded wings In confident innocence. IN THE GARDEN. I. THE GARDEN. Past the town's clamour is a garden full Of loneness and old greenery; at noon When birds are hushed, save one dim cushat's croon, A ripen'd silence hangs beneath the cool Great branches; basking roses dream and drop It lies beneath the summer, while great ease II. VISIONS. Here I am slave of visions. When noon heat Strikes the red walls, and their environ'd air Lies steep'd in sun; when not a creature dare Where woof of leaves embowers a beechen seat, Upon fair shapes that move on silent feet. Those Three strait-robed, and speechless as they pass, Come often, touch the lute, nor heed me more Than birds or shadows heed; that naked child Is dove-like Psyche slumbering in deep grass; Sleep, sleep,-he heeds thee not, yon Sylvan wild Munching the russet apple to its core. III. AN INTERIOR. The grass around my limbs is deep and sweet; Of tempered light where fair things fair things meet; White busts and marble Dian make it holy, Within a niche hangs Durer's Melancholy Brooding; and, should you enter, there will greet |