Who had drunke deepe of the Pierian spring.
And the bard of Twickenham tells us
A little learning is a dangerous thing; ·
Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring.
Then, warmly walled with books,
While my wood-fire supplied the sun’s defect,
Whispering old forest-sagas in its dreams,
I take my May down from the happy shelf
Where perch the world’s rare song-birds in a row,
Waiting my choice to open with full breast,