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A hundred times, by rock or bower,Ere thus I have lain couch'd an hour,Have I derived from thy sweet powerSome apprehension;Some steady love; some brief delight;Some memory that had taken flight;Some chime of fancy wrong or right;Or stray invention.
If stately passions in me burn,And one chance look to Thee should turn,I drink out of an humbler urnA lowlier pleasure;The homely sympathy that heedsThe common life, our nature breeds;A wisdom fitted to the needsOf hearts at leisure.
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