deep;
Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean
knows;

Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its
appointed sleep.

_Percy Bysshe Shelley_.




XXXIII.

We lay
Stretched upon fragrant heath and lulled by sound
Of far-off torrents charming the still night,
To tired limbs and over-busy thoughts
Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness.

_William Wordsworth_.




XXXIV.

There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls