“If solid happiness we prize, within our breast this jewel lies,aAnd they are fools who roam. The world has nothing to bestow. From our own selves our joys must flow, and that dear hut, our home.”
“If solid happiness we prize, within our breast this jewel lies,aAnd they are fools who roam. The world has nothing to bestow. From our own selves our joys must flow, and that dear hut, our home.”
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