Hist, hist, ye winds, ye whispering wavelets hist

Hist, hist, ye winds, ye whispering wavelets hist,
Their toil is done, their teen and trouble are o'er,
Wash them, ye waves, in silence to the shore,
Waft them, ye winds, with voices hushed and whist.
Hist, waves and winds, here shall their eyes be kist
By love, and sweet love-slumber, till the roar
Of forepast storms, now stilled, for evermore,
Die on their dream-horizons like dim mist.

What of renown, ye winds, when storms are done?
A faded foam-flower on a wearying wave.
All toil is but the digging of a grave.
Here let them rest awhile ere set the sun,
And sip the honey'd moments one by one—
So fleet, so sweet, so few to squander or save.