Over his head the chafer hummeth,
Under his feet shut daisies bend:
Waken, man! the enemy cometh,
Thy neighbor, counted so long a friend.
He cannot waken — and firm, and steady,
The enemy comes with lowering brow;
He looks for war, his heart is ready,
His thoughts are bitter — he will not bow.
He fronts the seat,— the dream is flinging
A spell that his footsteps may not break,—
But one in the garden of hops is singing —
The dreamer hears it, and starts awake.