Death is the tyrant of the imagination.

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.

So mightiest powers buy deepest calms are fed, And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be!