The Sleeper

The sleeper lies, with closed eyes,
And softly moving breath,
So soft, so still, her life’s sweet thrill,
’Tis only more than death.

Her dark, dark hair, reposing there,
Upon her pillow’s snow,
And sweeping down her cheek’s faint brown,
And bosom’s spotless glow.

She wakes at last, her sleep has past,
Her eyes on me are thrown;
My sleeping love—my heavenly dove—
Has been in realms unknown.