the prospect.
47
But here, while I may, I am laughing. To think how pleasant a thing,To fly to this skiey quiet, And freshen a ruffled wing.
My poverty and its vexations Vanish and leave me free:—From Cushing's, inclusive, eastward To the feet of the journeying sea;
From the hither wall of Barnard To Knobscot's blue recess—Through lands of Locke to the south 'With acres more or less,
In the yield of all farms and woodlands, We, Robin and I, go shares;And our landlords are sunbeams and waters, And grudge us no repairs.
