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The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, the lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, the plowman homeward plods his weary way, and leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, and all the air a solemn stillness holds, save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, and drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
— (book)
by Thomas Gray
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| Language: | English |
| Submitted by: | volhosis |
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