Oh would that I with pen could make
A gilded landscape of a lake,
Or brush in hand could tumble down
Painted mountains to the ground.
But though to you it sounds absurd,
My pen for me makes only words.
A gilded landscape of a lake,
Or brush in hand could tumble down
Painted mountains to the ground.
But though to you it sounds absurd,
My pen for me makes only words.
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