There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.

For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be… And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace;Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,While the stars burn, the moons increase,And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet;Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.