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This from Byron . . .Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
"But in man's dwelling he became a thing
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome
Drooped as the wild-born falcon with
Clipped wing
To whom the boundless air alone were home
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome
As eagerly the barred up bird will beat
His breast and beak against his wiry dome
Til the blood tinge his plumage, so the
Heat
Of his impeded soul would through his
Bosom eat"
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