A flower-wreathed instrument of his calling went to the player of the sprightliest air; after which awardment, the fiddlers, each to the tune of his own choosing, marched off the green […]
It is the imagination that is majoritively full of bad images and makes us anxious and restricted in our abilities to choose.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep …
[…] on summer nights when the tulips were abloom and the bees buzzing […]
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