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NOCTURNE
THE houseless wind has gone to rest
In some rude cavern-bed of ocean,
And Neptune smooths his foamy crest,
At Dian's will, with meek devotion;
The shepherd, gathering his sheep,
Has brought them safely to the fold,—
And in my arms my world I hold!
Sleep!
Forespent with hunting on the hill,
My truant, in the dusk returning,
Finds the lone heart, he left at will,
With the one worship burning.
The moonlight pales—the shade grows deep—
The nightingale doth silence break!
Ah, love, until the lark shall wake,
Sleep!
No homeless wanderer art thou!
Here, pillowed safe, thy head is lying.
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