No more do I burn.
No more for us the fluttering of wings
That whirred in the air above us.
Lo the fair dead!
ยท
No more do I burn.
No more for us the fluttering of wings
That whirred in the air above us.
Lo the fair dead!
“Through and through the inspired leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But, oh! resspect hsi lordship’s taste,
And spare his golden bindings.”
Robert Burns | “The Book-Worms”