Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/122

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But the day never comes. Alas! we make A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step, But sleep ourselves at the foot: our high resolves Look down upon our slumbering acts."   I soon left Italy: it is well worth A year of wandering, were it but to feel How much our England does outweigh the world. A clear cold April morning was it, when I first Rode up the avenue of ancient oaks, A hundred years upon each stately head. The park was bright with sunshine, and the deer Went bounding by; freshness was on the wind, Till every nerve was braced; and once the air Came with Arabian sweetness on its wing,— It was the earliest growth of violets. A fairy foot had left its trace beside,—