O thou whose fringed lids I gaze upon, Through whose dim brain the winged dreams are born, Unroof the shrines of clearest vision, In honour of the silverflecked morn: Long hath the white wave of the virgin light Driven back the billow of the dreamful dark. Thou all unwittingly prolongest night, Though long ago listening the poised lark, With eyes dropt downward through the blue serene, Over heaven's parapets the angels lean.
- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
I'm basking in a glorious autumn woodland retreat on this brisk, sunny day near Icicle Creek. Brim-full of delicious organic nourishment, peeping chickadees, flitting nuthatches, and skittering coveys of quail, I'm all in for any praise of a Sleeping Lady.