To thine uttermost deep, unlitten and cold,
I thrill thee with rapture, then wander away.
GARLAND: There is no sadness in the world but death.
The years that whitened o'er thy head have taken
The colour from thy life, but still in me
The blood beats young and red; yea, still my breath
Is full of freshness as the wind that blows
Across the morning-fells when night has shaken
His cooling dews among the wakening heath.
Yea, now the wind that lashes o'er the sea