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I went to the Garden of Love. And saw what I never had seen: A Chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green. And the gates of this Chapel were shut, And Thou shalt not writ over the door; So I turn’d to the Garden of Love That so many sweet flowers bore. And I saw it was filled with graves, And tomb-stones where flowers should be: And priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds, And binding with briars, my joys and desires.60
The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self: Cultural Amnesia, Expressive Individualism, and the Road to Sexual Revolution
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