Trust me, sweet, Out of this silence yet I pick'd a welcome.
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But now being lifted into high society, And having pick'd up several odds and ends Of free thoughts in his travels for variety, He deem'd, being in a lone isle, among friends, That without any danger of a riot, he Might for long lying make himself amends; And singing as he sung in his warm youth, Agree to a short armistice with truth.
lord byronWild-rose, Sweetbriar, Eglantine, All these pretty names are mine, And scent in every leaf is mine, And a leaf for all is mine, And the scent Oh, that's divine! Happy-sweet and pungent fine, Pure as dew, and pick'd as wine.
leigh hunt