Book 4 — CCXIV

There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like Thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming: And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep, Whose breast is gently heaving As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.