. The poetic and dramatic works of Alfred lord Tennyson. PROLOGUE O Lady Flora, let me speak ; A pleasant hour has passed awayWhile, dreaming on your damaskcheek, The dewy sister-eyelids by the lattice you reclined, I went thro many wayward moodsTo see you dreaming — and, behind, A summer crisp with shining I too dreamd, until at last Across my fancy, brooding warm, 10The reflex of a legend past, And loosely settled into would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I take the broidery-frame, and add A crimson to the quaint macaw,And I will tell i
. The poetic and dramatic works of Alfred lord Tennyson. PROLOGUE O Lady Flora, let me speak ; A pleasant hour has passed awayWhile, dreaming on your damaskcheek, The dewy sister-eyelids by the lattice you reclined, I went thro many wayward moodsTo see you dreaming — and, behind, A summer crisp with shining I too dreamd, until at last Across my fancy, brooding warm, 10The reflex of a legend past, And loosely settled into would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I take the broidery-frame, and add A crimson to the quaint macaw,And I will tell it. Turn your face, Nor look with that too-earnest eye —The rhymes are dazzled from theirplace And orderd words asunder fly. 20 THE SLEEPING PALACE The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happyplains,Here rests the sap within the leaf, Here stays the blood along the shadows, vapors lightly curld, Faint murmurs from the meadowscome,Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb. THE DAY-DREAM 129. The page has caught her hand in his ;Her lips are severd as to speak Soft lustre bathes the range of urns On every slanting terrace-lawn. 30The fountain to his place returns Deep in the garden lake droops the banner on the tower, On the hall-hearths the festal fires,The peacock in his laurel bower, The parrot in his gilded wires. inRoof-haunting martins warm theireggs:In these, in those the life is mantles from the golden pegs Droop sleepily; no sound is made, 40Not even of a gnat that sings. More like a picture seemeth allThan those old portraits of old kings,That watch the sleepers from thewall. Here sits the butler with a flask Between his knees, half-draind ; andthereThe wrinkled steward at his task, The maid-of-honor blooming page has caught her hand in his ; Her lips are severd as to speak; 50His own are pouted to a kiss; The blush is fixd upon her cheek. Till all the hundred summers pass.
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