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There, healthy as a shepherd boy,

And treading among flowers of joy

Which at no season fade,

Thou, while thy babes around thee cling,

Shalt show us how divine a thing

A woman may be made.

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,

Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh
A melancholy slave;

But an old age serene and bright,

And lovely as a Lapland night,

Shall lead thee to thy grave.

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Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,

Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,

High as the highest peak of Furness Fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells :
In truth, the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence to me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground,

Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

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And that inspiring hill which "did divide
Into two ample horns his forehead wide,"
Shines with poetic radiance as of old;

While not an English mountain we behold
By the celestial Muses glorified.

Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds:
What was the great Parnassus' self to thee,
Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty

Our British hill is nobler far; he shrouds
His double front among Atlantic clouds,
And

pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.

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A captive never wishing to be free.

This tiresome night, O sleep! thou art to me
A fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above

Now on the water vexed with mockery.

I have no pain that calls for patience, no;
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child;

Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled:

O gentle creature! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled.

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When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Dear bosom child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering; balm that tames
All anguish; saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,

Like to a breeze from heaven.

Shall I alone,

I surely not a man ungently made,
Call thee worst tyrant by which flesh is crost?
Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,
Still last to come where thou art wanted most!

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Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure

sky;

I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies

Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:

Without thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,

Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

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