I've been a dweller on the plains, have sighed when summer days were gone; No more I'll sigh; for winter here Hath gladsome gardens of his own.

I've been a dweller on the plains, have sighed when summer days were gone; No more I'll sigh; for winter here Hath gladsome gardens of his own.

The days are cold, the nights are long, The North wind sings a doleful song; Then hush again upon my breast; All merry things are now at rest, Save thee, my pretty love!

Every question was like the snapping of a little thread about my heart.

Upon the highest ridge of that round hill covered with planted oaks, the shafts of the trees show in the light like the columns of a ruin.

Scotland is the country above all others that I have seen, in which a man of imagination may carve out his own pleasures; there are so many inhabited solitudes.

I think one of the dullest things in the world is a letter filled with apologies for not writing sooner.