FROM DEWY DREAMS, MY SOUL, ARISEBy James JoyceFrom dewy dreams, my soul, arise,From love’s deep slumber and from death,For lo!

the trees are full of sighsWhose leaves the morn admonisheth.

Eastward the gradual dawn prevailsWhere softly-burning fires appear,Making to tremble all those veilsOf grey and golden gossamer.

While sweetly, gently, secretly,The flowery bells of morn are stirredAnd the wise choirs of faeryBegin (innumerous!

) to be heard.

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