There was within nor wind nor shower,
And this had life that flowers have not. 180
I drew it forth—Ah, luckless lot!
It was the mandrake; and the sound
Of anguish deeply smother’d shot
Into my breast with pang profound.
XXIV.
“I would I were a soaring bird,”
Said Folly, “and I then would fly.”
Some mocking Muse or Fairy heard—