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((—It seems a day, (I speak of one from many singled out), One of those…
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When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung,
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Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint,
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Which for that service had been husbanded,
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Motley accoutrement, of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth,
More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks,
Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets,
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
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Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,
A virgin scene!—A little while I stood,
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As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
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Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;
A temper known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blest
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And fade, unseen by any human eye;
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For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam,
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That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees,
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep—
I heard the murmur, and the murmuring sound,
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Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash
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Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being: and, unless I now
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Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
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The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.—
Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades
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