Quote #36
From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills; Through moss and through brake, It runs and it creeps For a while, till it sleeps In its own little lake.
More from Robert Southey
- So I told them in rhyme, For of rhymes I had store.
- It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds, Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter, Among crags i…
- How does the water Come down at Lodore?
- Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing, Flying and flinging, Writhing and ringing, Eddyin…
- Thou hast been called, O sleep! the friend of woe; But 'tis the happy that have called thee so.
- And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar…
- Oh, when a mother meets on high The babe she lost in infancy, Hath she not then for pains and fears, The day of woe, the watchful night, Fo…
- Wild dreams! but such As Plato lov'd; such as with holy zeal Our Milton worshipp'd. Blessed hopes! awhile From man with-held, even to the l…