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Joy and Pleasure

 Now, joy is born of parents poor, 
And pleasure of our richer kind; 
Though pleasure's free, she cannot sing 
As sweet a song as joy confined.
Pleasure's a Moth, that sleeps by day And dances by false glare at night; But Joy's a Butterfly, that loves To spread its wings in Nature's light.
Joy's like a Bee that gently sucks Away on blossoms its sweet hour; But pleasure's like a greedy Wasp, That plums and cherries would devour.
Joy's like a Lark that lives alone, Whose ties are very strong, though few; But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams, Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.
Joy from her heart doth sing at home, With little care if others hear; But pleasure then is cold and dumb, And sings and laughs with strangers near.

by William Henry Davies
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