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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me!
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign in solitude.
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the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
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Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong.
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And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the lawIn calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
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