But safe repose, without an air of breath,
Dwells here, and a dumb quiet next to death,
An arm of Lethe with a gentle flow,
Arising upward from the rock below,
The palace moats, and o'er the pebbles creeps,
And with soft murmurs calls the coming sleeps.
Around its entry nodding poppies grew,
And all cool simples that sweet rest bestow;
Night from the plants their sleepy virtue drains,
And passing, sheds it on the silent plains: