Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs:

In these, in those the life is stayed. The mantles from the golden pegs Droop sleepily: no sound is made,

Not even of a gnat that sings.

More like a picture seemeth all Than those old portraits of old kings,

That watch the sleepers from the wall.

Here sits the Butler with a flask

Between his knees, half-drained; and there The wrinkled steward at his task,

The maid-of-honor blooming fair: The page has caught her hand in his : Her lips are severed as to speak:

His own are pouted to a kiss :

The blush is fixed upon her cheek.

Till all the hundred summers pass,

The beams, that through the Oriel shine,

Make prisms in every carven glass,

And beaker brimmed with noble wine.

Each baron at the banquet sleeps,

Grave faces gathered in a ring. His state the king reposing keeps.

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows
At distance like a little wood;
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes,

And grapes with bunches red as blood;
All creeping plants, a wall of green
Close-matted, bur and brake and briar,
And glimpsing over these, just seen,
High up, the topmost palace-spire.

When will the hundred summers die,
And thought and time be born again,
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh,

Bring truth that sways the soul of men?
Here all things in their place remain,
As all were ordered, ages since.

Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, And bring the fated fairy Prince.

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

Year after year unto her feet,

She lying on her couch alone,

Across the purple coverlet,

Roof-haunting martins warm their

eggs:

In these, in those the life is stayed. The mantles from the golden pegs

Droop sleepily: no sound is made, Not even of a gnat that sings.

More like a picture seemeth all Than those old portraits of old kings,

That watch the sleepers from the wall.

Here sits the Butler with a flask

Between his knees, half-drained; and there The wrinkled steward at his task,

The maid-of-honor blooming fair: The page has caught her hand in his : Her lips are severed as to speak:

His own are pouted to a kiss :

The blush is fixed upon her cheek.

Till all the hundred summers pass,

The beams, that through the Oriel shine,

Make prisms in every carven glass,

And beaker brimmed with noble wine.

Each baron at the banquet sleeps,

Grave faces gathered in a ring. His state the king reposing keeps.

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows
At distance like a little wood;
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes,
And grapes with bunches red as blood;
All creeping plants, a wall of green
Close-matted, bur and brake and briar,
And glimpsing over these, just seen,
High up, the topmost palace-spire.

When will the hundred summers die,
And thought and time be born again,
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh,

Bring truth that sways the soul of men?
Here all things in their place remain,
As all were ordered, ages since.

Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, And bring the fated fairy Prince.

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

Year after year unto her feet,

She lying on her couch alone,

Across the purple coverlet,

Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs:

In these, in those the life is stayed. The mantles from the golden pegs

Droop sleepily: no sound is made, Not even of a gnat that sings.

More like a picture seemeth all Than those old portraits of old kings,

That watch the sleepers from the wall.

Here sits the Butler with a flask

Between his knees, half-drained; and there The wrinkled steward at his task,

The maid-of-honor blooming fair:

The page has caught her hand in his

Her lips are severed as to speak:

His own are pouted to a kiss :

The blush is fixed upon her cheek.

Till all the hundred summers pass,

:

The beams, that through the Oriel shine,

Make prisms in every carven glass,

And beaker brimmed with noble wine.

Each baron at the banquet sleeps,
Grave faces gathered in a ring.
His state the king reposing keeps.