XXXIV.

There is sweet music here that softer falls

Than petals from blown roses on the grass,

Or night-dews on still waters between walls

Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies

Than tired eye-lids upon tired eyes;

Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.

Here are cool mosses deep,

And thro' the mass the ivies creep,

And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep.

And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

Alfred Tennyson.