So mightiest powers buy deepest calms are fed, And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be!
I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more.
Pity speaks to grief More sweetly than a band of instruments.
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.
Half the ills we heard within our hearts are ills because we hoard them.
