The Lotos-Eaters
by Alfred Tennyson

There is sweet music, here that softer falls.
Than petals from brown roses on the grass
or night-dews on still waters between walls,
of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentilier on the spirit lies
than tired eyelids upon tired eyes,
Music that brings sweet sleep
down from the blissful skies,here are cool mosses deep,
And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge,
the poppy hangs in sleep.