Great Muse, thou know'st what prison,
Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets 21
Our spirit's wings: besets
Our pillows; and the fresh to-morrow morn
Seems to give forth its light in very scorn
Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives.
Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets 21
Our spirit's wings: besets
Our pillows; and the fresh to-morrow morn
Seems to give forth its light in very scorn
Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives.
Keats
