Sweet sounds surround the sleeping hare
who rests within the thicket there.
Beneath the prickly vines, his bower,
his dreams soon blossom as a flower.
Warm, he suckles his mother’s milk,
her fur, to him, the softest silk.
Strong, he runs through plenteous field,
and to no terror must he yield.
What wanton enterprise, to dream,
so quick it is to change a scene,
and pleasant thoughts might soon grow sour
before the passing of an hour.
Flight from beasts on every side,
he runs his circuit fearful eyed.
Jaws do snatch him from the ground,
and so he’s shaken by the hound.
Restless is the sleeping hare
who starts, waking to cold night air.
He shivers and begins to cower.
So ends the dream and its strange power.