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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
— William Wordsworth
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I believe this earth on which we stand is but the vestibule to glorious mansions through which a moving crowd forever press.
— Joanna Baillie
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