Than if with thee the roaring wells

Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine;

And hands so often clasp'd in mine,

Should toss with tangle and with shells.

XI.

CALM is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,

And only thro' the faded leaf
The chesnut pattering to the ground:

Calm and deep peace on this high wold,

And on these dews that drench the furze,

And all the silvery gossamers

That twinkle into green and gold :

Calm and still light on yon great plain

That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers,

To mingle with the bounding main :

Calm and deep peace in this wide air,

These leaves that redden to the fall;

And in my heart, if calm at all,

If any calm, a calm despair:

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,

And waves that sway themselves in rest,

And dead calm in that noble breast

Which heaves but with the heaving deep.

XII.

Lo, as a dove when up she springs
To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe,

Some dolorous message knit below
The wild pulsation of her wings;

Like her I go; I cannot stay;

I leave this mortal ark behind,
A weight of nerves without a mind,
And leave the cliffs, and haste away

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large,

And reach the glow of southern skies, And see the sails at distance rise, And linger weeping on the marge,

And saying; Comes he thus, my friend?

Is this the end of all my care?'

And circle moaning in the air :

Is this the end? Is this the end?'

And forward dart again, and play About the prow, and back return

To where the body sits, and learn,

That I have been an hour away.