Wagner

To strange conceits oft I myself must own, But impulse such as this I ne'er have known: Nor woods, nor fields, can long our thoughts engage, Their wings I envy not the feather'd kind; Far otherwise the pleasures of the mind, Bear us from book to book, from page to page! Then winter nights grow cheerful; keen delight Warms every limb; and ah! when we unroll Some old and precious parchment, at the sight All heaven itself descends upon the soul.