| How fleet is a glance of the mind! | |
| Compared with the speed of its flight, | |
| The tempest itself lags behind, |
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| And the swift-wingèd arrows of light. | |
| When I think of my own native land, | |
| In a moment I seem to be there; | |
| But, alas! recollection at hand | |
Soon hurries me back to despair.
-W.Cowper
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