Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/278

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 The Shark at savage prey,—the Hawk at pounce,— The gentle Robin, like a Pard or Ounce, Ravening a Worm,—Away, ye horrid moods! Moods of one's mind! You know I hate them well. You know I'd sooner be a clapping Bell To some Kamchatsan Missionary Church, Than with these horrid moods be left in lurch.

 

all the summer I could stay, For there's a Bishop's Teign, And King's Teign, And Coomb at the clear Teign's head; Where, close by the stream. You may have your cream, All spread upon barley bread.

There's Arch Brook, And there's Larch Brook,— Both turning many a mill; And cooling the drouth Of the salmon's mouth, And fattening his silver gill.

There's a wild wood, A mild hood, 