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SONNET.

[WORDSWORTH.]

They are of the sky,

And from our earthly memory fade away.

THESE words were utter'd in a pensive mood,
Even while mine eyes were on that solemn sight:
A contrast and reproach to gross delight,
And life's unspiritual pleasures daily woo'd!
But now upon this thought I cannot brood:
It is unstable, and deserts me quite;
Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright,
Disparaging man's gifts, and proper food.
The grove, the sky-built temple, and the dome,
Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,
Find in the heart of man no natural home:
The immortal mind craves objects that endure;
These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,
Nor they from it; their fellowship is secure.

THE END.

Printed by J. F. DovE. St. John's Square.

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