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If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies,
And they are fools who roam; The world hath nothing to bestow,— From our own selves our bliss must flow,
iiitd that dear hut, our home.
— Nathaniel Cotton. |
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The fireside wisdom that enrings, "With light from heaven, familiar things.
— James Russell Lowtll. |
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