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Show Who hath found a land serene, Fruited with a mellow peace. Sorrowed not for his release In some 'lovelier land unseen? Who hath wrought in splendid art Living color, breathing things Hath not wept for nobler things Alien lo his aching heart? Who hath known a love so fair. Fairer love h did not yearn. Prayed within his soul might burn Flame more luminous and rare? Whore's tho land of Golden Rest. Where hath Joy forgot grief's name, Where doth burn the perfect flame God leaves smouldering in our breast? From the Craftsman. |