Poem William Wordsworth

On Seeing Some Tourists of the Lakes Pass by Reading; a Practice Very Common

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What waste in the labour of Chariot and Steed!
For this came ye hither? is this your delight?
There are twenty-four letters, and those ye can read;
But Nature’s ten thousand are Blanks in your sight.
Then throw by your Books, and the study begin;
Or sleep, and be blameless, and wake at Your Inn!

On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic
The Solitary

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