![]() | The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems | ![]() |
42
The charm bestow'd that banish'd spleen
Thy bosom pure and light.
But still a nobler power I claim;
That power allied to poets' fame,
Which language vain has dar'd to name—
The soul's creative might.
![]() | The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems | ![]() |