To W.S.B. When the grey evening spreads a calm around, Tell me, has thy bewilder’d fancy sought, Retir’d in some sequestered spot of ground, Rest, from the labour of eternal thought? When, wrapt in self, the soul enjoys repose, The wearied brain resigns its fervent heat, In dream-like musing every care we lose, And wind our way with slowly-moving feet. Oft, to indulge the...
The Lonely Walk
T