Pleasures of Fancy
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path, old tree, goes by thee crooking on,And through this little gate that claps and bangsAgainst thy rifted trunk, what steps hath gone?Though but a lonely way, yet mystery hangsOer crowds of pastoral scenes recordless here.The boy might climb the nest in thy young boughsThat's slept half an eternity; in fearThe herdsman may have left his startled cowsFor shelter when heaven's thunder voice was near;Here too the woodman on his wallet laidFor pillow may have slept an hour away;And poet pastoral, lover of the shade,Here sat and mused half some long summer dayWhile some old shepherd listened to the lay.
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