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Light, feeling, and sense will pass away; and in this condition

must I find my happiness. Some years ago, when the images which

this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering

warmth of summer and heard the rustling of the leaves and the

warbling of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have

wept to die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes

and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in

death?