Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, <br />Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; <br />Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers <br />Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air. <br /> <br />Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming <br />To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above: <br />O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, <br />I too could glide to the bower of my love! <br /> <br />Ah! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, <br />Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, <br />Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, <br />To her lost mate's call in the forests far away. <br /> <br />Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest, <br />Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to me— <br />Come—this fond bosom, O faithfullest and fairest, <br />Bleeds with its death-wound, its wound of love for thee!<br /><br />George Darley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-41/
