Thou sleepest but when wilt thou wake, fair child? br When the fawn awakes in the forest wild? br When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of morn? br When the first rich breath of the rose is born? br Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies br Too deep and still on thy soft-seal'd eyes, br Mournful, tho' sweet, is thy rest to see br When will the hour of thy rising be? br br Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark br On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark br Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet br The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet; br Love with sad kisses, unfelt, hath press'd br Thy meek dropt eyelids and quiet breast; br And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee, br Shall colour all blossoms, fair child! but thee.