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I am half-sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.
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Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.
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One so small Who knowing nothing knows but to obey.
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Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.
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Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.
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Either sex alone is half itself.
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Silence, beautiful voice.
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Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point. ... Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns. ... Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.
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Trust me not at all, or all in all.
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Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away.
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Rain, rain, and sun! A rainbow in the sky!
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I can't be anonymous by reason of your confounded photographs. (To Julia Margaret Cameron)
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The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
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Sweet is every sound, sweeter the voice, but every sound is sweet.