How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest ? When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. On the Beauties, Harmonies, and Sublimities of Nature: With Occasional ... - Side 232 av Charles Bucke - 1823 Uten tilgangsbegrensning -
|