When in the down I sink my head,
      Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my breath;
      Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows not Death,
Nor can I dream of thee as dead:

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn,
      When all our path was fresh with dew,
      And all the bugle breezes blew
Reveill�e to the breaking morn.

But what is this? I turn about,
      I find a trouble in thine eye,
      Which makes me sad I know not why,
Nor can my dream resolve the doubt:

But ere the lark hath left the lea
      I wake, and I discern the truth;
      It is the trouble of my youth
That foolish sleep transfers to thee.

Last modified 14 February 2010