Mundo de O, eu no posso manter o thee prximo bastante! Ventos de Thy, cus cinzentos largos thy! Nvoas de Thy, esse rolo e ascenso! Madeiras de Thy, este dia do outono, que ache e cedem e tudo com exceo do grito com cor! Esse crag gaunt a esmagar! Para levantar o lean desse blefe preto! Mundo, mundo, eu no posso comear a fim do thee bastantes!
Longo ter I sabido todo um glory nele, mas nunca soube I isto; Aqui tal paixo est enquanto o stretcheth mim distante, Senhor, mim teme Thou'st feito o mundo demasiado bonito este ano; Minha alma toda com exceo fora de mim, deixou a queda nenhuma folha ardente; o prithee, no deixou nenhum pssaro chamar-se.
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