Where are your books ? That light bequeathed, to bring else forlorn and blind!
The eye it cannot choose,but see; we cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where’er they be, Against or with our will.
Think you, ‘mid all this mighty sum Of things forever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking ?
‘Then ask not wherfore, here,alone conversing as l may, l sit upon this old grey stone, And dream my time away.’
Poetry A Day 