Death is the tyrant of the imagination.
Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors.
Pity speaks to grief More sweetly than a band of instruments.
Half the ills we heard within our hearts are ills because we hoard them.
I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more.
The sweetest noise on earth, a woman's tongue; A string which hath no discord.
Oh, the summer night, Has a smile of light, And she sits on a sapphire throne.
All round the room my silent servants wait, My friends in every season, bright and dim.
O human beauty, what a dream art thou, that we should cast our life and hopes away on thee!
So mightiest powers buy deepest calms are fed, And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be!