Breezes lull my lady fair,
Cool her eyelids, soothe her hair,
While the murmuring surges seem
To float her through a world of dream.
Shadowy sloops are gliding in
Safe the harbor-bar within.
Silently each phantom pale
Drops the anchor, furls the sail.
She, meanwhile, remote from me
Drifts on sleep’s unfathomed sea.
So may every dream of ill
Find its anchorage, and be still;
Sorrow furl its sails and cease
In this midnight realm of peace;
And each wandering thought find rest
In the haven of her breast!
Thomas Wentworth Higginson