text,updated_at,metaphor,created_at,context,theme,reviewed_on,dictionary,comments,provenance,id,work_id "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 prepar'd for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.
(ll. 49-56)",2013-06-04 15:20:31 UTC,"""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 prepar'd for longer flight, / Waves in its plumes the various light.""",2006-12-15 00:00:00 UTC,"","",2012-04-04,Animals,2008-12-03,"Reading Norton Critical Edition of Seventeenth Century British Poetry, 1603-1660; found again reading Rosalie Osmond's Imagining the Soul: A History (Phoenix Mill: Sutton Publishing, 2003), 139.",9692,3757