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Authors:

Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal. That grief for which the senses still supply Fresh food; for only then, when memory. Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain those busy cares that would allay my pain; Oh! Leave me to myself, nor let me feel. The officious touch that makes me droop again.

William Wordsworth