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For life is but a dream whose shapes return, Some frequently, some seldom, some by night And some by day,
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And all sad scenes and thoughts and feelings vanish In that sweet sleep no power can ever banish,...
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Absence, with all its pains, is, by this charming moment, wiped away.
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More firm and sure the hand of courage strikes, when it obeys the watchful eye of caution.
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Once in a stately passion / I cried with desperate grief,/ 'O Lord, my heart is black with guile,/ Of sinners I am chief.'
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