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Life Is But A Day; A Fragile Dewdrop On Its Perilous Way From A Tree's Summit.
-John Keats
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Life Is But A Day; A Fragile
John Keats
Life Is But A Day; A Fragile Dewdrop On Its Perilous Way From A Tree's Summit.
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Tree
Way
Life Is
More From John Keats
Of Love, That Fairest Joys Give Most Unrest.
Giving
Joy
Unrest
Nor Do We Merely Feel These Essences For One Short Hour No, Even As These Trees That Whisper Round A Temple Become Soon Dear As The Temples Self, So Does The Moon, The Passion Posey, Glories Infinite, Haunt Us Till They Become A Cheering Light Unto Our Souls And Bound To Us So Fast, That Wheather There Be Shine, Or Gloom O'er Cast, They Always Must Be With Us, Or We Die.
Cheer
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Adieu! Adieu! Thy Plaintive Anthem Fades Past The Near Meadows, Over The Still Stream, Up The Hill-side; And Now 'tis Buried Deep In The Next Valley-glades: Was It A Vision, Or A Waking Dream? Fled Is That Music:--do I Wake Or Sleep?
Dream
Sleep
Past
For Poesy Alone Can Tell Her Dreams, With The Fine Spell Of Words Alone Can Save Imagination From The Sable Charm And Dumb Enchantment. Who Alive Can Say, ‘thou Art No Poet May’st Not Tell Thy Dreams?’ Since Every Man Whose Soul Is Not A Clod Hath Visions, And Would Speak, If He Had Loved And Been Well Nurtured In His Mother Tongue. Whether The Dream Now Purpos’d To Rehearse Be Poet’s Or Fanatic’s Will Be Known When This Warm Scribe My Hand Is In The Grave.
Mother
Dream
Art
Oh What Can Ail Thee, Knight-at-arms, Alone And Palely Loitering?
Knights
Arms
Thee
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