Practice Typing

No sooner on my vision streaming, smote The heavnly influence, which years past, and een In childhood, thrilld me, than towards Virgil I Turnd me to leftward, panting, like a babe, That flees for refuge to his mothers breast, If aught have terrified or workd him woe. And would have cried. There is no dram of blood, That doth not quiver in me. The old flame Throws out clear tokens of reviving fire.