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And the billows of clo
Shall sleep in the lig Where hell and heaver To the universe of des
This world is the nurse
This world is the mc
When all that we know,
The secret things of the Where all but this fra Though the fine-wroug
No longer will live to All that is great and all t In the boundless realm o
Who telleth a tale of unsp Who lifteth the veil of 328
Who painteth the shadows that are beneath The wide-winding caves of the peopled
Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be
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