LXVIII.
             
        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
        Reveillée 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.