![]() | The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems | ![]() |
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To horrors gaunt, or ghastly fear,
Or desolation wild:
For I of pleasures fair could sing,
That steal from life its sharpest sting,
And man have made around it cling,
Like mother to her child.
![]() | The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems | ![]() |