Now as Heaven is my Lot, they're the Pests of the Nation!
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood,
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock
A green and silent spot, amid the hills,
THERE is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind,
If dead, we cease to be ; if total gloom
As late I journey'd o'er the extensive plain
Low was our pretty Cot : our tallest Rose
If I had but two little wings
To the River Otter
Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun the mountain peaks are the Thrones of
Ungrateful he, who pluck'd thee from thy stalk,
Scene--A spacious drawing-room, with music-room adjoining.
The Moon, how definite its orb!
Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no
Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,
The first seen in the season
It may indeed be fantasy when I
Resembles Life what once was held of Light,
When Hope but made Tranquillity be felt--
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
Verse, a Breeze 'mid blossoms straying,