Low lies the mere beneath the moorside, still And glad of silence: down the wood sweeps clear To the utmost verge where fed with many a rill Low lies the mere. The wind speaks only summer: eye nor ear Sees aught at all of dark, hears aught of shrill, From sound or shadow felt or fancied here. Strange, as we praise the dead man`s might and skill, Strange that harsh thoughts should make such heavy cheer, While, clothed with peace by heaven`s most gentle will, Low lies the mere.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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