'Tis time my dear, 'tis time. The heart demands repose.
Day after day flits by, and with each hour there goes
A little of life; but meanwhile you and I
Together plan to dwell . . . yet lo! 'tis then we die.
There is no bliss on earth: there's yet peace and freedom, though.
An enviable lot I long have yearned to know:
Long have I, weary slave, been contemplating flight
To a remote abode of work and pure delight.
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