 |
|
 | The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems |  |
And then, as grew thy languid mood,
To some embow'ring silent wood
I led thy careless way;
Where high from tree to tree in air
Thou saw'st the spider swing her snare,
So bright!—as if, entangled there,
The sun had left a ray:
To some embow'ring silent wood
I led thy careless way;
Where high from tree to tree in air
Thou saw'st the spider swing her snare,
So bright!—as if, entangled there,
The sun had left a ray:
| The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems | |