Canto LXVI
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 blewReveillée to the breaking morn.
But what is this? I turn about,I find a trouble in thine eyeWhich makes me sad I know not why,Nor can my dream resolve the doubt:
But ere the lark hath left the leaI wake, and I discern the truth;It is the trouble of my youthThat foolish sleep transfers to thee.