George Crabbe

To sigh, yet not recede; to grieve, yet not repent!

To sigh, yet not recede; to grieve, yet not repent!

All green was vanished save of pine and yew,
That still displayed their melancholy hue;
Save the read more

All green was vanished save of pine and yew,
That still displayed their melancholy hue;
Save the green holly with its berries red,
And the green moss that o'er the gravel spread.

Feed the musician, and he's out of tune

Feed the musician, and he's out of tune

Habit with him was all the test of truth;
"It must be right: I've done it from my youth."

Habit with him was all the test of truth;
"It must be right: I've done it from my youth."

Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies,
Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies;
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Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies,
Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies;
The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare,
And shed their substance on the floating air.