| Ah, love, let us be true |
| To one another! for the world, which seems |
| To lie before us like a land of dreams, |
| So various, so beautiful, so new, |
| Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, |
| Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; |
| And we are here as on a darkling plain |
| Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, |
| Where ignorant armies clash by night. |
| Matthew Arnold in his poem "Dover Beach" |
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