The poets who in earth have made us heirs of truth a pure delight by heavenly lays! Oh! Might my name be numberd among theirs The glady would end my mortal days!

(Dorothy) (Coleridge) To sit without emotionhope or aim In the loved presence of my cottage fire And Listen to the flapping of the flame Or kettle whispering its faint undersong

(Heidelberg) (Nubes)

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