Look Thy Last On All Things Lovely,

A Lost But Happy Dream May Shed Its Light Upon Our Waking Hours, And The Whole Day May Be Infected With The Gloom Of A Dreary Or Sorrowful One; Yet Of Neither May We Be Able To Recover A Trace.

Look Thy Last On All Things Lovely, Every Hour

His Are The Quiet Steeps Of Dreamland, The Waters Of No-more-pain; His Ram's Bell Rings 'neath An Arch Of Stars, "rest, Rest, And Rest Again.

Slowly, Silently, Now The Moon Walks The Night In Her Silver Shoon.

When I Lie Where Shades Of Darkness Shall No More Assail Mine Eyes.