It Keeps Eternal Whisperings Around Desolate Shores

He Ne'er Is Crowned With Immortality Who Fears To Follow Where Airy Voices Lead.

And When Thou Art Weary I'll Find Thee A Bed, Of Mosses And Flowers To Pillow Thy Head.

Feeling Well That Breathed Words Would All Be Lost, Unheard, And Vain As Swords Against The Enchased Crocodile, Or Leaps Of Grasshoppers Against The Sun.

So Let Me Be Thy Choir, And Make A Moan Upon The Midnight Hours.

She Hurried At His Words, Beset With Fears, For There Were Sleeping Dragons All Around.