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Dante Gabriel Rossetti | The Day-Dream

The thronged boughs of the shadowy sycamore
Still bear young leaflets half the summer through;
⁠From when the robin 'gainst the unhidden blue
Perched dark, till now, deep in the leafy core,
The embowered throstle's urgent wood-notes soar
⁠Through summer silence. Still the leaves come new;
⁠Yet never rosy-sheathed as those which drew
Their spiral tongues from spring-buds heretofore.

Within the branching shade of Reverie
Dreams even may spring till autumn; yet none be
⁠Like woman's budding day-dream spirit-fann'd.
Lo, tow'rd deep skies, not deeper than her look,
She dreams; till now on her forgotten book
⁠Drops the forgotten blossom from her hand.