Oh, how wide the silence seemeth, not a sound disturbing comes,
Save a drowsy, sleepy buzzing, that around continuous hums;
And I seem to float out loosely on weak slumber’s languid breast,
With a kind of half reluctance that sinks gradually to rest.
Distant faces group around me, kindly eyes look in my own,
And I hear, though indistinctly, voices of the lost and gone:
His whose bark went down in tempest; his whose life and death were gloom;
His whose hopes and young ambitions fell and faded on the tomb;
Oh, again his earnest language breaks upon my dreaming ear,
And I catch the tones that waking I shall never, never hear.