This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree.
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He kneels at morn and noon and eve -- He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump.
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The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, "Why this is strange, I trow! Where are those lights so many and fair, That signal made but now?"
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Part the Seventh
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