![]() | The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems | ![]() |
43
Is that which to thy secret will
Did minister unseen,
Unfelt, unheard; when every sense
Did sleep in drowsy indolence,
And Silence deep and Night intense
Enshrouded every scene;
![]() | The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems | ![]() |