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 And saves with care (lest they be lost) The dainty diagrams of frost.

He counts the hairs of every head, And grieves to see a sparrow dead.

II

Among the yellow primroses He holds His Summer palaces,

And sets the grass about them all To guard them as His spearmen small.

He fixes on each wayside stone A mark to show it as His own,

And knows when raindrops fall through air Whether each single one be there,

That gathered into ponds and brooks. They may become His picture books,

To show in every spot and place The living glory of His face.

CECIDIT, CECIDIT BABYLON MAGNA!

The aimless business of your feet, Your swinging wheels and piston rods, The smoke of every sullen street Have passed away with all your Gods.