Or sometimes after dinners dreary, When some good neighbour drops in weary— I’ll corner him and catch his coat And stuff him with the play I wrote; Or else (and here I’m far from jesting), When off beside my lake I climb— Beset with yearning and with rhyme— I scare a flock of ducks from resting; And hearing my sweet stanzas soar, They flap their wings and fly from shore.
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