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Half the ills we heard within our hearts are ills because we hoard them.
– Bryan Procter
So mightiest powers buy deepest calms are fed, And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be!
O human beauty, what a dream art thou, that we should cast our life and hopes away on thee!
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.
Pity speaks to grief More sweetly than a band of instruments.
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.
The sweetest noise on earth, a woman’s tongue; A string which hath no discord.
Death is the tyrant of the imagination.
Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors.
Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream, Gently, – as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream!