I strolled last eve across the lonely down;
One solitary picture struck my eye:
A distant ploughboy stood against the sky—
How far he seemed above the noisy town!
Upon the bosom of a cloud the sod
...
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On the swift flying hours |
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I never lost as much but twice, |
I TASTE a liquor never brewed, |
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When the low heavy sky weighs like a lid |