English poet (1859-1936)

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And malt does more than Milton can To justify God's ways to man.
In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.
Who made the world I cannot tell 'Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.

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