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The Poet
(from "a midsummer-night's dream")
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And, as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turn them to shapes, and gives airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
William Shakespeare
Inscription
For a Fountain On a Heath
This Sycamore, oft musical with bees, -
Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed
May all its aged boughs o'ercanopy
The small round basin, which this jutting stone
Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,
Quietly as sleeping infant's breath,
Send up cold waters to the traveller
With soft and even pulse! Nor ever case
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,
Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's page,
As merry and no taller, dances still,
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.
Here twilight is and coolness: here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.
Drink, Pilgrim, here; Here rest! and if thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy Spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale or hum murmuring bees!
Samual Taylor Coleridge |
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