 Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors. |
| There's not a wind but whispers of thy name; And not a flow'r that grows beneath the moon, But in its hues and fragrance tells a tale Of thee, my love. |
| All round the room my silent servants wait, My friends in every season, bright and dim. |
| Oh, the summer night, Has a smile of light, And she sits on a sapphire throne. |
| Half the ills we heard within our hearts are ills because we hoard them. |
| So mightiest powers buy deepest calms are fed, And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be! |
| Death is the tyrant of the imagination. |
| O human beauty, what a dream art thou, that we should cast our life and hopes away on thee! |
| Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream, Gently, - as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream! |
| Pity speaks to grief More sweetly than a band of instruments. |
| The sweetest noise on earth, a woman's tongue; A string which hath no discord. |
| I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more. |
