2001 Ross-Hunt Publishing. All rights reserved. The locks of the approaching storm. Sweet though in sadness.
Nothing beside remains.
The lone and level sands stretch far away. In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflowed. As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.