Bryan Procter

So mightiest powers buy deepest calms are fed, And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be!

Pity speaks to grief More sweetly than a band of instruments.

Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream, Gently, - as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream!

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

I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more.

There's not a wind but whispers of thy name; And not a flow'r that grows beneath the moon, But in its hues and fragrance tells a tale Of thee, my love.