Though Time's black mountain overhangs
the night where she's engrossed in sleep
its shadow cannot bruise my love,
so calm she lies, she dreams so deep.

She is not hurt by what shall be,
death stands enchanted in her eyes;
remote and lovely, a floating flower
on the lily pool of sleep she lies.

Dream deep, my love, as in the time
when your sweet spirit was unborn,
but rise up when the east is purple
and dress your hair for Judgment morn.