You have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms, like a malcontent; to relish a love-song, like a robin redbreast.
Ye waves That o'er th' interminable ocean wreathe Your crisped smiles.
At the head of Flora's dance; Simple Snow-drop, then in thee All thy sister-train I see; Every brilliant bud that blows, From the blue-bell to the rose; All the beauties that appear, On the bosom of the Year, All that wreathe the locks of Spring, Summer's ardent breath perfume, Or on the lap of Autumn bloom, All to thee their tribute bring.james montgomery
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