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Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,
The mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.
— William Wordsworth.
By the waters of life we sat together,
Hand in hand, in the golden days Of the beautiful early summer weather,
When hours were anthems, and speech was praise.
— Richard Real/.
And never seemed the land so fair As now, nor birds such notes to >in_.
Since first within your shining hair I wove the blossoms of the spring.
— Edmund Clarence Stedman.
I played a soft and doleful air;
I sang an old and moving story — An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.
— Samuel Taylor Coleridge.