16049wearsthe quiet of fr shapes from which life has gone, intowhich eternity has breathed; like the sands whenan empty shell, sand untrodden sand, p horizons poolssomething seen from a train window - a pool, a chu[?] wood -which is scarcely robbed of its solitude; so soon will itsink ag sink into peace again.ItEven the pryingsurprisedof the wind, the soft jaws of the clammy sea air, fluffing, nosingdo nothing to disturb this solitary solitude, this beauty, thisintegrity, for where noth there is nothing to excite, &no collusion, & no compromise, it seems as iftruth were there, at last, robed in its own
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