Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors.
Oh, the summer night, Has a smile of light, And she sits on a sapphire throne.
I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more.
All round the room my silent servants wait, My friends in every season, bright and dim.
Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream, Gently, – as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream!
Half the ills we heard within our hearts are ills because we hoard them.
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.
The sweetest noise on earth, a woman’s tongue; A string which hath no discord.
O human beauty, what a dream art thou, that we should cast our life and hopes away on thee!
Death is the tyrant of the imagination.