Come Now, I Said, "Put Off These Webs Of Death, Distract This Leaden Yearning Of Thine Eyes From Lichened Banks Of Peace, Sad Mysteries Of Dust Fallen-In Where Passed The Flitting Breath: Turn Thy Sick Thoughts From Him That Slumbereth In Mouldered Linen To The Living Skies, The Sun'S Bright-Clouded Principalities, The Salt Deliciousness The Sea-Breeze Hath! "Lay Thy Warm Hand On Earth'S Cold Clods And Think What Exquisite Greenness Sprouts From These To Grace The Moving Fields Of Summer; On The Brink Of Arch'D Waves The Sea-Horizon Trace, Whence Wheels Night'S Galaxy; And In Silence Sink The Pride In Rapture Of Life'S Dwelling-Place!"