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A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake
- Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,
Το Μ. Η.
Our walk was far among the antient trees;
Or wind from any quarter ever come,
Written when sailing in a Boat
How rich the wave, in front, imprest With evening twilight's summer hues, While, facing thus the crimson west, The Boat her silent course pursues ! And see how dark the backward stream ! A little moment past, so smiling! And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, Some other Loiterer beguiling.