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But, instead, she builds me bridges over many a dark ravine, Where beneath the gusty ridges Cataracts dash and roar unseen.

And I cross them, little heeding Blast of wind or torrent's roar, As I follow the receding Footsteps that have gone before.

Naught avails the imploring gesture, Naught avails the cry of pain! When I touch the flying vesture, 'T is the gray robe of the rain.