All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place; Peach, and apricot, and fig Here will ripen, and grow big; Here is store and overplus - More had not Alcinous!
Tis an old dial with many a stain; In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, And white in winter like a marble tomb. And round about its gray, time-eaten brow Lean letters speak - a worn and shattered row: I am a Shade: A Shadowe too arte thou: I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?
Become a fan
Follow us
Subscribe
