Page:Poems (IA poemstennalfr00tennrich).pdf/123

 There is sweet music here that softer falls, Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or nightdews on still waters between walls Of 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.

Why are we weighed upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness?