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.