Pity speaks to grief More sweetly than a band of instruments.
I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more.
Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors.
So mightiest powers buy deepest calms are fed, And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be!
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.
Half the ills we heard within our hearts are ills because we hoard them.
