The light is silent on the greeny sward, br And from a bough above the wild dove's coo br Steals on the ear like a dream-dewy word, br Or the voice of one of a faery crew. br The warmth within the azure of the hills br Breathes like the picture of a perfect thing, br Which some supernal artist limning has br Made mystical with love's remembering. br Now the faint murmur of the coming tide br Grows like a spirit in the quiet cove, br While with a drowsy murmur kin to it br The brown bees among the sweet flowers rove. br Here where the heart could fold itself, and sleep br As if within a shining century, br Naught seems to change but thought, and even it br Makes every change a tender melody. br All here is so remote from the world's care, br As if it were a dream that would not fade, br Amid so much that man has ruined here br Like some old-world divineness that has stayed.