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THE ISHMAELITE
’Tis said, by Angel-footsteps
Such garden-paths are trod—
Angels, the sky forsaking,
Tend every blossom, making
A pleasure-place for God.
—I have walk’d in some such garden.
How well it was, how meet!
Yet, down each alley shining,
With tears I wander’d, pining
For wild things round my feet!
Sweeter than thrush or robin,
To me, the seagull’s scream;
Fairer the blacken’d heather
That fronts the bleak moor-weather,
Than that soft garden-dream.
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