All round the room my silent servants wait, My friends in every season, bright and dim.

You must wait until the end, and at the end of the season you can say it was a good or a bad season.

Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream, Gently, - as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream!

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.

I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more.