At Dawn she lay with her profile at that angle <br />Which, when she sleeps, seems the carved face of an angel. <br />Her hair a harp, the hand of a breeze follows <br />And plays, against the white cloud of the pillows. <br />Then, in a flush of rose, she woke, and her eyes that opened <br />Swam in blue through her rose flesh that dawned. <br />From her dew of lips, the drop of one word <br />Fell like the first of fountains: murmured <br />'Darling', upon my ears the song of the first bird. <br />'My dream becomes my dream,' she said, 'come true. <br />I waken from you to my dream of you.' <br />Oh, my own wakened dream then dared assume <br />The audacity of her sleep. Our dreams <br />Poured into each other's arms, like streams.<br /><br />Stephen Spender<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/daybreak-26/
