THE PARK
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he prosperous and beautifulTo me seem not to wearThe yoke of conscience masterful,Which galls me everywhere. I cannot shake off the god;On my neck he makes his seat;I look at my face in the glass,--My eyes his eyeballs meet. Enchanters! Enchantresses!Your gold makes you seem wise;The morning mist within your groundsMore proudly rolls, more softly lies. Yet spake yon purple mountain,Yet said yon ancient wood,That Night or Day, that Love or Crime,Leads all souls to the Good.
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