On

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
And the coming of deat
To a brain unencom
steel;

When all that we know,
Shall pass like an unreal

The secret things of the Where all but this fra Though the fine-wroug

drous ear

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

tomb?

Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be
With the fears and the love for that which we

see?

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
Point from one shrine like pyramids of fire,
Obeyest in silence their sweet solemn spells,
Clothing in hues of heaven thy dim and distant
spire,

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

sky

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

keep.