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— William Wordsworth"I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation."
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The tear, down childhood's cheek that flows, Is like the dewdrop on the rose; When next the summer breeze comes by And waves the bush, the flower is dry.
— Walter Scott
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Our yesterdays Are like a lonely and a ruined land Wherein a breeze of recollection sighs-- A fading land to which is no return.
— Henry Abbey
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