human
Ay, still my fragments wander, music-fraught, Sighs of the soul, mine once, mine now, and mine For ever! Crumbled arch, crushed aqueduct, Alive with tremors in the shaggy growth Of wild-wood, crevice-sown, that triumphs there, Imparting exultation to the hills.
gpt
Peace policy by which his actual and lower self had kept on good terms abroad, and beguiled the imperious thirst for
human
at home. Indignantly the author of _Hervé Riel_ asks why