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.SourceThe script ran 0.005 seconds.
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