 Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and combs its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight,...  Macmillan's Magazineeditado por - 1905Visualização integral - Acerca deste livro
 | Philip David Zelazo, Morris Moscovitch, Evan Thompson - 2007
...(1637-1678/1968) poem, "The Garden," and ends her talk with the stanza in which occur these lines: My soul into the boughs does glide: There like a Bird, it sits, and sings . . . (P- 5°) We can smile at Descartes' or Marvell's prescientific idea of the soul. Or we can see... | |
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