 | The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems |  |
Thus fix'd, a dreadful hour I past,
And now I heard, as from a blast,
A voice pronounce my name:
Nor long upon my ear it dwelt,
When round me 'gan the air to melt,
And motion once again I felt
Quick circling o'er my frame.
And now I heard, as from a blast,
A voice pronounce my name:
Nor long upon my ear it dwelt,
When round me 'gan the air to melt,
And motion once again I felt
Quick circling o'er my frame.
| The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems | |