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JOHN JONES.
XXIII.
All was made for, devised, ruled out gradually, planned—
Ah, that sea-shell, perhaps—since it lies, such a ring
Of pure colour, a cup full of sunbeams, to stand
(Say, in Lent) at the priest's hand—(no king!)
XXIV.
Had you said—'Save the seed and secure souls in flower'—
Ah, how time laughs, years palpitate, pro grapples con,
Till one day you shrug shoulders—'Well, gone, the good hour!
Till one night—'Is God off now? or on?