Normale Version: Dent
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There is a town, of little note or praise,
Narrow and winding are its rattling streets,
Where cart with cart in cumbrous conflict meets,
Hard straining up or backing down the ways,

Where insecure the crawling infant plays,
And the nigh savour of the hissing sweets
Of pan or humming oven rankly greets
The hungry nose that threats the sinuous maze;

Yet there the lesson of the pictured porch,
The beauty of Platonic sentiment,
The sceptic wisdom, positive in doubt,

All creeds and fancies, like the hunter's torch,
Cought each from each, perfection find in Dent,
Where what they cannot get they do without.