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Triumphal arch, that fills the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art.
Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given, For happy spirits to alight, Betwixt the earth and heaven.
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Methought I heard a butterfly Say to a labouring bee: "Thou hast no colours of the sky On painted wings like me."
"Poor child of vanity! those dyes, And colours bright and rare," With mild reproof, the bee replies, "Are all beneath my care.
"Content I toil from morn to eve, And scorning idleness, To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave The vanity of dress."
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If I had but two little wings And were a little feathery bird, To you I'd fly, my dear! But thoughts like these are idle things And I stay here.
But in my sleep to you I fly: I'm always with you in my sleep! The world is all one's own. And then one wakes, and where am I? All, all alone.
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