Page:Studies in Song - Swinburne (1880).djvu/182

 But a rest from the wind as it passes, Where, hardly redeemed from the waves, Lie thick as the blades of the grasses The dead in their graves.

A multitude noteless of numbers, As wild weeds cast on an heap: And sounder than sleep are their slumbers, And softer than song is their sleep; And sweeter than all things and stranger The sense, if perchance it may be, That the wind is divested of danger And scatheless the sea.

That the roar of the banks they breasted Is hurtless as bellowing of herds,