The ocean is a mighty harmonist.

The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.

Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

The memory of the just survives in Heaven.

She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.