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Praised be the moon of books! that doth above
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I never have taken a Peach in my Hand,
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The poet will seek to clothe herself in sparrows.
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A special happiness
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Let the cricket take up chafing
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Goodbye, Winter,
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Somewhere there’s a goat that squirts
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The paradise of Autumn light
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It is the words starve us, the act that feeds.
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A few books shining like the wood of trees.