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here shall the lover rest,Whom the fates severFrom his true maiden’s breast,Parted for ever?Where, through groves deep and high,Sounds the far billow,Where early violets die,Under the willow.
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— William Blake
Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?
Or wilt thou go ask the Mole:
Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?
Or Love in a golden bowl?
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