Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          HOW dear to me the hour when daylight dies,

                And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,

          For then sweet dreams of other days arise,

                And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

          And, as I watch the line of light, that plays

                Along the smooth wave toward the burning west,

          I long to tread that golden path of rays,

                And think ’twould lead to some bright isle of rest.