A Thing Of Beauty Is

Let Us Away, My Love, With Happy Speed; There Are No Ears To Hear, Or Eyes To See, - Drown'd All In Rhenish And The Sleepy Mead. Awake! Arise! My Love And Fearless Be, For O'er The Southern Moors I Have A Home For Thee.

Load Every Rift With Ore.

And When Thou Art Weary I'll Find Thee A Bed, Of Mosses And Flowers To Pillow Thy Head.

The Thought, The Deadly Thought Of Solitude.

Of Love, That Fairest Joys Give Most Unrest.