  His heart was pure: he loved the child That dwelt among untrodden ways And dared to lift his voice in praise Of humblest wight in highlands wild. Poor, wretched man by sin defiled, He sang in sympathetic lays— His heart was pure. The blithe cuckoo and daisy mild, The daffodils, like elfin fays, The mystery of sunset haze O'er barren moors, his pen beguiled— His heart was pure. |
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