SOFT languors on the bosom of the deep, A blissful swoon that takes the sense in thrall; My hopes are dead, my memory is asleep, I only lie and watch the waters fall And lift, and let my tired spirit steep In sun and sea, as happy as a hound That lazes on a plot of grassy ground; Until the dim night shadows come and creep Between the day and me, and end it all. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE AEOLIAN HARP by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 50 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: JANUARY by EDMUND SPENSER RELEASE by GLADYS NAOMI ARNOLD HOW THE WINNING FOUR WEST HOME by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |