Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depths of some devine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

As the husband is the wife is; thou art mated with a clown, As the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

He makes no friend who never made a foe.

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.

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.

All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.