Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.

For all things are less dreadful than they seem.

'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.