 | The remains of Robert Bloomfield (1824) |  |
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THE FLOWERS OF THE MEAD.
How much to be wish'd that the flowers of the mead
The pleasures of converse could yield;
And be to our bosoms, wherever we tread,
The reasoning sweets of the field!
The pleasures of converse could yield;
And be to our bosoms, wherever we tread,
The reasoning sweets of the field!
But silent they stand,—yet in silence bestow,
What smiles, and what glances impart;
And give, every moment, Joy's exquisite glow,
And the powerful throb of the heart.
What smiles, and what glances impart;
And give, every moment, Joy's exquisite glow,
And the powerful throb of the heart.
| The remains of Robert Bloomfield (1824) | |