 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
O'er Albions turf,
Skies' silver eaves be shining anew bright;
The Moon looks forth. See, yond, elves mumming run,
In strange disguisings of bird-kinds and beasts'.
Some sally, as hooting bogles from dim wood.
Skies' silver eaves be shining anew bright;
The Moon looks forth. See, yond, elves mumming run,
In strange disguisings of bird-kinds and beasts'.
Some sally, as hooting bogles from dim wood.
Lo, in moist meadow, by a rivers brink,
Are other gathered! where elf o'erskips elf,
His fellows bowed-down neck. All, in fond mirth,
Is their contention, whiles-oft tripping up;
To outgo that tumble-footed waters' race.
Who, or for stress of laughter, or lack of breath,
Stumbleth, or flings else flatsome, on damp grass;
With all their small palms' buffets, lies amerced.
Are other gathered! where elf o'erskips elf,
His fellows bowed-down neck. All, in fond mirth,
Is their contention, whiles-oft tripping up;
To outgo that tumble-footed waters' race.
Who, or for stress of laughter, or lack of breath,
Stumbleth, or flings else flatsome, on damp grass;
With all their small palms' buffets, lies amerced.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |