Poor little Foal of an oppressed race! I love the languid patience of thy face.
Samuel Taylor ColeridgeA noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.
Samuel Taylor ColeridgeA grief without a pang, void, dark and drear, A drowsy, stifled, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet or relief, In word, or sigh, or tear.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge