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Lichen. ... Solitude. 
How use doth breed a habit in a man! 
The shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, 
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns: 
There can I sit alone, unseen of any, 
And to the nightingale’s complaining notes 
Tune my distresses, and record my woes. 
ShaJcsjpeare. 
Full many a dreary hour have I past, 
My brain bewildered, and my mind o’ercast 
With heaviness; in seasons when I’ve thought 
No sphery strains by me could e’er be caught 
From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze 
On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays; 
Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely, 
Pry ’mong tfle stars, to strive to think divinely: 
That I should never hear Apollo’s song, 
Though feathery clouds were floating all along 
The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, 
The golden lyre itself were dimly seen: 
That the still murmur of the honey-bee 
Would never teach a rural song to me: 
That the bright glance from beauty’s eyelids slanting 
Would never make a lay of mine enchanting, 
Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold 
Some tale of love and arms in time of old. 
Keats. 
