To hear the beat
Of ever-toiling billows—and to sail
The midnight deep with daring canvas spread;
To seek some isle where storm may not prevail—
Where tombs are never shaped for loved ones dead—
Where palmy summits lay
Their shadows in clear fountains all the day,
Where lilies lave
Their shining tresses in the resting wave;
Thither, kind stranger, through the night at rest,