The Picture

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Through weeds and thorns, and matted underwood
I force my way; now climb, and now descend

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O’er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot
Crushing the purple whorts; while oft unseen,

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Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves,
The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil,

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I know not, ask not whither! A new joy,
Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust,

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And gladsome as the first-born of the spring,
Beckons me on, or follows from behind,

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Playmate, or guide! The master-passion quelled,
I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark

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The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak,
Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake

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Soar up, and form a melancholy vault
High o’er me, murmuring like a distant sea.

Stanza from Coleridge’s poem ‘The Picture‘.

 

 

 

(Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this blog and/or photographs without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Mosaicross] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content).

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