/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.6931352]

>Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
>Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
>While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
>And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
>Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
>Among the river sallows, borne aloft
>Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
>And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
>Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
>The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
>And gathering swallows twitter in the skies

Does it get any better than this?

[Anonymous No.6931831]

No

As close you can get to perfect