He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill, But that is fancy, for the starlight dews...
Childe Harold's pilgrimage. Illustr. ed - Page 149
by George Gordon N. Byron (6th baron.) - 1869
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