 There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.  Poems by Mr. Gray - Page 134by Thomas Gray - 1775 - 136 pagesFull view - About this book
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...the foot of yonder nodding beech, • That wreathes its old famaftic roots fo high, • His liftlefs length at noon-tide would he ftretch, ' And pore upon the brook that babbles by. L • Hard 0 • Hard by yon wood, now fmiling as in fcorn, ' Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would... | |
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...'That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 'His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 'And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 'Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove, 'Now drooping, woeful wan, like... | |
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...Beech That wreathes its old fantastic Roots so high, His listless Length at Noontide wou'd he stretch, And pore upon the Brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon Wood, now smiling as in Scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward Fancies he wou'd rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one... | |
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...beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one... | |
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...beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now dropping, woeful wan, like one... | |
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...Beech That wreathes its old fantastic Roots so high, 'His listless Length at Noontide would he stretch And pore upon the Brook that babbles by. 'Hard by yon Wood, now frowning as in Scorn, 'Mutt'ring his wayward Fancies he would rove, 'Now drooping, woeful wan, like... | |
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...beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd... | |
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