Tis the blot upon the brain That will show itself without. Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, And the yellow vapours choke The great city sounding wide ; The day comes, a dull red ball Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke On the misty river-tide. Thro' the hubbub... The Annual Register, Or, A View of the History, Politics, and Literature for ... - Page 403 edited by - 1838 Full view -
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