FROM DEWY DREAMS, MY SOUL, ARISE

By James Joyce

From dewy dreams, my soul, arise,

From love’s deep slumber and from death,

For lo! the trees 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.