Souls of Poets dead and gone What Elysium have
ye known, Happy field or
mossy cavern, Choicer than the
Mermaid Tavern?
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And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.
john miltonShe dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: Aviolet bya mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!
william wordsworthA violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye; Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.
william wordsworthThe mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom; And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.
Under various names, I have praised only you, rivers! You are milk and honey and love and death and dance. From a spring in hidden grottoes, seeping from mossy rocks, Where a goddess pours live water from a pitcher, At clear streams in the meadow, where rills murmur underground, Your race and my race begin, and amazement, and quick passage.
czesław miłosz