And the sadness itself of the land for its infinite solitude saddens
⁠More for the sound than the silence athirst for the sound that slakes.
And the sunset at last and the twilight are dead: and the darkness is breathless
⁠With fear of the wind's breath rising that seems and seems not to sleep:
But a sense of the sound of it alway, a spirit unsleeping and deathless,
⁠Ghost or God, evermore moves on the face of the deep.