Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.
I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.
A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it.