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A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake
To M. H.
Our walk was far among the antient trees;
Beneath the branches of itself had made
A track, which brought us to a slip of lawn,
On its firm margin, even as from a Well,
Or wind from any quarter ever come,
; The spot was made by Nature for herself: The travellers know it not, and 't will remain Unknown to them: but it is beautiful; And if a man should plant his cottage near, Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, And blend its waters with his daily meal, He would so love it that in his death hour Its image would survive among his thoughts : And therefore, my sweet MARY, this still nook With all its beeches we have named for You.
Written when sailing in a Boat
How rich the wave, in front, imprest