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The little wind-flower, whose just opened eyeIs blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
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William Cullen Bryant |
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The groves were God's first temples.
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William Cullen Bryant |
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Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increaseAre fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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William Cullen Bryant |
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And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze,Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
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William Cullen Bryant |
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Maidens hearts are always soft:Would that men's were truer!
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William Cullen Bryant |
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Go forth under the open sky, and listTo Nature's teachings.
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William Cullen Bryant |
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The hills,Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun.
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William Cullen Bryant |
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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
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William Cullen Bryant |
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All that tread,That slumber in its bosom.
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William Cullen Bryant |