Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

Sist sett

LilleviDemeterTanteMamieAlice NordliritaolineAnneWangnefertitiKathrineKirsten LundStine AskeStein KippersundIngunn ØvrebøGroKaramasov11GladleserBjørg L.Beathe SolbergbrekToveHallgrim BarlaupChristofferHanneAstrid SæverhagenPiippokattaStig THeidiBerit RHarald KPernille GrimelandEmil ChristiansenMorten MüllerVannflaskeKaren RamsvikTine SundalEster SLisbeth Marie UvaagEivind  VaksvikFrisk NordvestMari ArnJarmo Larsen