“There is sweet music here that softer fallsThan petals from blown roses on the grass,Or night-dews on still waters between wallsOf shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.Here are cool mosses deep,And thro' the moss the ivies creep,And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.”

“Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.”

“The wind sounds like a silver wire,And from beyond the noon a fireIs pour'd upon the hills, and nigherThe skies stoop down in their desire;And, isled in sudden seas of light,My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight,Bursts into blossom in his sight.”

“She sleeps: her breathings are not heardIn palace chambers far apart.The fragrant tresses are not stirr'dThat lie upon her charmed heartShe sleeps: on either hand upswellsThe gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwellsA perfect form in perfect rest.”

“Seal'd her minefrom her first sweet breathMine, and mine by right, from birth till deathMine, mine-our fathers have sworn.”

“The city is builtTo music, therefore never built at all,And therefore built forever.”

“Dark house, by which once more I standHere in the long unlovely street,Doors, where my heart was used to beatSo quickly, waiting for a hand,A hand that can be clasp'd no more -Behold me, for I cannot sleep,And like a guilty thing I creepAt earliest morning to the door.He is not here; but far awayThe noise of life begins again,And ghastly thro' the drizzling rainOn the bald street breaks the blank day.”