 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
How blissful is this Dawn;
Wherein that kindly rádiance of the Sun;
And Britains Muse divíne, I see again.
She, a goddess stands, in homely weed arrayed;
As upland maidens use on holidays,
Of their sheeps fleece. But hardly might to-day,
The like be found in hundred folds, I trow,
Being of rare golden hue.
Wherein that kindly rádiance of the Sun;
And Britains Muse divíne, I see again.
She, a goddess stands, in homely weed arrayed;
As upland maidens use on holidays,
Of their sheeps fleece. But hardly might to-day,
The like be found in hundred folds, I trow,
Being of rare golden hue.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |