| http://www.w3.org/ns/prov#value | - Because life's passing show Is little to his mind,There is a man I know Indrawn from human kind.His dearest friends are books; Yet oh how glad he talksTo birds and trees and brooks On lonely walks.He takes the same still way By grove and hill and sea;He lives that each new day May like the last one be.He hates all kinds of change; His step is sure and slow:Though life has little range He loves it
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