I know the ground my grandsire tilled; Tell you? Why should I? I mind the fragrant maunds she filled— My grandam goody. I see the house now; wet or fine, The roadside lindens keep their line, Forget, how could I? The bouquet of that age of gold With no one share I: This world's too new and I'm too old; But here declare I: The air we breathed was sweet, not rank: Then nothing whizzed, boomed, buzzed or stank. @3Fas gloriari!@1 |