How he sleepeth! having drunken Weary childhood's mandragore, From his pretty eyes have sunken
Go, sit upon the lofty hill, And turn your eyes around, Where waving woods and waters wild
"Yes!" I answered you last night; "No!" this morning, Sir, I say! Colours, seen by candle-light,
Mine is a wayward lay; And, if its echoing rhymes I try to string, Proveth a truant thing,