The busy lark, messenger of day, saluteth in her song the morrow gray; and firey Phoebus rises up so bright, that all the orient laugheth at the sight. And with his streames drieth in the greves the silver drops, hanging on the leaves.
The busy lark, messenger of day, saluteth in her song the morrow gray; and firey Phoebus rises up so bright, that all the orient laugheth at the sight. And with his streames drieth in the greves the silver drops, hanging on the leaves.