I cannot think the glorious world of mind,
Embalm'd in books, which I can only see
In patches, though I read my moments blind,
Is to be lost to me.
I have a thought that, as we live elsewhere,
So will those dear creations of the brain;
That what I lose unread, I'll find, and there
Take up my joy again.
O then the bliss of blisses, to be freed
From all the wants by which the world is driven;
With liberty and endless time to read
The libraries of Heaven!
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