Moaned round their eaves. And in more happy days
By some pale silver summer moon, when dim
The waters were—mysterious eves of dusk,
And music, stars, and silence, when the sea
Sighs languorously as a god in sleep—
Singing into my saddened heart should come
White thoughts, to bloom in words as roses break
And blow and wither and are gone; and we,
Reckless of time, should waken not and find
Our hearts grown old, but evermore live on