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the poet's home.
But low down in the village
Is a cottage, white and small,
And to me that cottage seemeth
More glorious than all!

From out its portal floweth
A tide of minstrelsy,
That rolleth as a river,
And soundeth as the sea!

If in storm-shocks meet its waters,
Or in summer quiet glide,
A sun that knows no setting
Smiles on the crystal tide;—

A sun across whose brightness
No lightest cloud is driven,—
The constant, kind approval,
The blessed love of Heaven.