Here! Sweep These Foolish Leaves Away, I Will Not Crush My Brains To-Day! Look! Are The Southern Curtains Drawn? Fetch Me A Fan, And So Begone! Not That, - The Palm-Tree'S Rustling Leaf Brought From A Parching Coral-Reef Its Breath Is Heated; - I Would Swing The Broad Gray Plumes, - The Eagle'S Wing. I Hate These Roses' Feverish Blood! Pluck Me A Half-Blown Lily-Bud, A Long-Stemmed Lily From The Lake, Cold As A Coiling Water-Snake. Rain Me Sweet Odors On The Air, And Wheel Me Up My Indian Chair, And Spread Some Book Not Overwise Flat Out Before My Sleepy Eyes. Who Knows It Not, - This Dead Recoil Of Weary Fibres Stretched With Toil, - The Pulse That Flutters Faint And Low When Summer'S Seething Breezes Blow! O Nature! Bare Thy Loving Breast, And Give Thy Child One Hour Of Rest, - One Little Hour To Lie Unseen Beneath Thy Scarf Of Leafy Green! So, Curtained By A Singing Pine, Its Murmuring Voice Shall Blend With Mine, Till, Lost In Dreams, My Faltering Lay In Sweeter Music Dies Away.