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SAINT MARGARET
Till Margaret, o’er the page God-given
Musing with love-illumin’d mind,
Reads this amid the lettering twined:
“As the look of the downs to the look of heaven,
My will to Thine, Lord, be resign’d!”
—Often the bees’ low song, enwove
With sunbeams and warm clover-scent,
Floats in, a balmy murmurment,
That laps her in a sense of love,
An idle sense of blank content:
Till down the quicken’d air comes pouring
Ecstasy, rapture infinite!
Her eyes flash open, wet and bright.
“Oh! can you see Him in your soaring?
Skylark! I wish He were in sight!
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