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.
Alfred Lord TennysonBut every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.
Alfred Lord Tennyson