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All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
The grass is bright with rain-drops;—on the moors
The hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.
----William Wordsworth
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One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the same day as we do ourselves.
----Philip Larkin