Milton


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Seasons return, but not to me returns day,

or the sweet approach of even or morn,

or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose,

or flock, or birds, or human face divine.

But cloud instead,

and ever-during dark

surrounds me,

from the cheerful ways of men.

Cut off,

and for the book of knowledge fair

presented with a universal blank.

Of nature’s works to me expunged and razed,

and wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.

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