Alfred Tennyson

THE WINDS, as at their hour of birth,
    Leaning upon the ridged sea,
Breathed low around the rolling earth
    With mellow preludes, ‘We are free.’

The streams, through many a lilied row
    Down-carolling to the crisped sea,
Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow
    Atween the blossoms, ‘We are free.’

Juvenilia - Contents

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