Chamber Music


James Joyce

FROM dewy dreams, my soul, arise,
    From love’s deep slumber and from death,
For lo! the treees are full of sighs
    Whose leaves the morn admonisheth.

Eastward the gradual dawn prevails
    Where softly-burning fires appear,
Making to tremble all those veils
    Of grey and golden gossamer.

While sweetly, gently, secretly,
    The flowery bells of morn are stirred
And the wise choirs of faery
    Begin (innumerous!) to be heard.

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