All last night I had quiet
            In a fragrant dream and warm: 
     She became my Sabbath,
            And round my neck, her arm.

     I knew the warmth in my dreaming;
            The fragrance, I suppose, 
     Was her hair about me,
            Or else she wore a rose.

     Her hair I think; for likest
            Woodruffe 'twas, when Spring 
     Loitering down the wet woodways
            Treads it sauntering.

     No light, nor any speaking;
            Fragrant only and warm. 
     Enough to know my lodging,
            The white Sabbath of her arm.

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