Oh! where do fairies hide their heads,
When snow lies on the hills,
When frost has spoiled their mossy beds,
And crystallized their rills?
Beneath the moon they cannot trip
In circles o’er the plain;
And draughts of dew they cannot sip,...
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Where lies the land to which the ship would go? On sunny noons upon the deck’s smooth face, |
How little recks it where men lie, |