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Without, the land still flows with blood, A likeness of my day: Earth's creatures moan, in fire and flood And God must look away.
But here, my vagrant spirit might Draw in the crystal air And mark, in music's purest light The toad, the sheep, the hare.
This is not my century! Sin's stain has spread apace ...Yet, fixed on our trajectory Are beams of perfect grace. — Ellen Taylor.
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