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It is hard even to admit this theory of hats, that to wear
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Bookshelves hold up
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The thunderous music peals
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that wonderful, old-fashioned word, wend,
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How red the fire reeks below,
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A dominie in gray
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Over the moon the shadows go,
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Exultation is the going
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Painted upon a background of pale gold,
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It is a willow when summer is over,
