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One's grand flights, one's Sunday baths,
One's tootings at the weddings of the
Occur as they occur
So bluish

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to dance
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offense,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense:

The Prospect was the Gate of Heaven, that
The ancient Light of Eden did convey Into my Soul:
I was an Adam there,
A little Adam in a Sphere Of Joys