A Trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun’s pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o’er Eildon’s triple height:
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in...
|
Earth has not anything to show more fair; |
Sonnet |
My heart leaps up when I behold |
Five years have past; five summers, with the length |
Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! |
Up! up, my friend! and quit your books, The sun, above the mountain’s head, |
Mikor először tűnt elém, |
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