Paul Hamilton Hayne (1830–1886)

PENT in this common sphere of sensual shows,

I pine for beauty,—beauty of fresh mien,

And gentle utterance, and the charm serene,

Wherewith the hue of mystic dreamland glows;

I pine for lulling music, the repose

Of low-voiced waters, in some realm between

The perfect Aidenn, and this clouded scene

Of love’s sad loss, and passion’s mournful throes;

A pleasant country, girt with twilight calm,

In whose fair heaven a moon of shadowy round

Wades through a fading fall of sunset rain;

Where drooping lotos flowers, distilling balm,

Dream by the drowsy streamlets Sleep hath crowned,

And Care forgets to sigh, and Patience conquers Pain.