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And the billows of cloud that around thee roll
Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day, Where hell and heaven shall leave thee free To the universe of destiny.
This world is the nurse of all we know,
This world is the mother of all we feel,
When all that we know, or feel, or see,
The secret things of the grave are there, Where all but this frame must surely be, Though the fine-wrought eye and the wondrous ear
No longer will live to hear or to see
Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death?
Who painteth the shadows that are beneath The wide-winding caves of the peopled
Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be
HE wind has swept from the wide atmosphere
Each vapour that obscured the
And pallid evening twines its beaming hair
Silence and twilight, unbeloved of men,
They breathe their spells towards the departing day,
Encompassing the earth, air, stars, and sea;
Light, sound, and motion own the potent sway,
Responding to the charm with its own mystery. The winds are still, or the dry church-tower grass
Knows not their gentle motions as they pass.
Thou too, aërial Pile! whose pinnacles
Around whose lessening and invisible height Gather among the stars the clouds of night.
The dead are sleeping in their sepulchres: And, mouldering as they sleep, a thrilling sound
Half sense, half thought, among the darkness stirs,
Breathed from their wormy beds all living things around,
And mingling with the still night and mute
Its awful hush is felt inaudibly.
Thus solemnized and softened, death is mild And terrorless as this serenest night:
Here could I hope, like some inquiring child Sporting on graves, that death did hide from human sight
Sweet secrets, or beside its breathless sleep That loveliest dreams perpetual watch did