Poetry / Isabella, or the Pot of Basil - XXXVIII
PAUSED- done- wpm- acc
Isabella, or the Pot of Basil - XXXVIII
Saying moreover, "Isabel, my sweet
Red whortleberries droop above my head,
And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet;
Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed
Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheepfold bleat
Comes from beyond the river to my bed:
Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom,
And it shall comfort me within the tomb.