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O There is blessing in this gentle breeze, A visitant that while he fans my cheek Doth seem half-conscious of the joy he bringsFrom the green fields, and from yon azure sky. — William Wordsworth, The Prelude, Book One
O There is blessing in this gentle breeze, A visitant that while he fans my cheek Doth seem half-conscious of the joy he bringsFrom the green fields, and from yon azure sky.