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Poem by William Wordsworth
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Sweet was the walk along the narrow lane At noon, the bank and hedge-rows all the way Shagged with wild pale green tufts of fragrant hay, Caught by the hawthorns from the loaded wain, Which Age with many a slow stoop strove to gain; And childhood, seeming still most busy, took His little rake; with cunning side-long look, Sauntering to pluck the strawberries wild, unseen. Now, too, on melancholy's idle dreams Musing, the lone spot with my soul agrees, Quiet and dark; for through the thick wove trees Scarce peeps the curious star till solemn gleams The clouded moon, and calls me forth to stray Thro' tall, green, silent woods and ruins gray.
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