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The City is of Night; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night; for never there...
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Absence, with all its pains, is, by this charming moment, wiped away.
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For life is but a dream whose shapes return, Some frequently, some seldom, some by night And some by day,
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A little, round, fat, oily man of God.
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And all sad scenes and thoughts and feelings vanish In that sweet sleep no power can ever banish,...
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