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Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,
The mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.
— William Wordsworth. |
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By the waters of life we sat together,
Hand in hand, in the golden days Of the beautiful early summer weather,
When hours were anthems, and speech was praise.
— Richard Real/. |
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And never seemed the land so fair As now, nor birds such notes to >in_.
Since first within your shining hair I wove the blossoms of the spring.
— Edmund Clarence Stedman. |
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I played a soft and doleful air;
I sang an old and moving story — An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.
— Samuel Taylor Coleridge. |
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