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Young Love lies sleeping
 In May-time of the year,
Among the lilies,
 Lapped in the tender light:
White lambs come grazing,
 White doves come building there:
And round about him
 The May-bushes are white.

Soft moss the pillow
 For oh, a softer cheek;
Broad leaves cast shadow
 Upon the heavy eyes:
There winds and waters
 Grow lulled and scarcely speak;
There twilight lingers
 The longest in the skies.

Young Love lies dreaming;
 But who shall tell the dream?
A perfect sunlight
 On rustling forest tips;
Or perfect moonlight
 Upon a rippling stream;
Or perfect silence,
 Or song of cherished lips.

Burn odours round him
 To fill the drowsy air;
Weave silent dances
 Around him to and fro;
For oh, in waking
 The sights are not so fair,
And song and silence
 Are not like these below.

Young Love lies dreaming
 Till summer days are gone,—
Dreaming and drowsing
 Away to perfect sleep:
He sees the beauty
 Sun hath not looked upon,
And tastes the fountain
 Unutterably deep.

Him perfect music
 Doth hush unto his rest,
And through the pauses
 The perfect silence calms:
Oh, poor the voices
 Of earth from east to west,
And poor earth's stillness
 Between her stately palms.

Young Love lies drowsing
 Away to poppied death;
Cool shadows deepen
 Across the sleeping face:
So fails the summer
 With warm, delicious breath;
And what hath autumn
 To give us in its place?

Draw close the curtains
 Of branched evergreen;
Change cannot touch them
 With fading fingers sere:
Here the first violets
 Perhaps will bud unseen,
And a dove, may be,
 Return to nestle here.

© Christina Georgina Rossetti