Death is the tyrant of the imagination.

A single star is rising in the east, and from afar sheds a most tremulous lustre; silent Night doth wear it like a jewel on her brow.

All round the room my silent servants wait, My friends in every season, bright and dim.

How silent are the winds!

Despair doth strike as deep a furrow in the brain as mischief or remorse.

I 'm on the sea! I 'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be, With the blue above and the blue below, And silence wheresoever I go.

Oh, the summer night, Has a smile of light, And she sits on a sapphire throne.