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 "Very fair the golden morning As in yonder wood I strayed, And I heard diviner music Than the greatest harpers made,

For a sweet bird sang before me Songs of laughter, and of tears, All that I have loved and longed for, As I measured out my years.

Sang of blessed shores and golden Where the old, dim heroes be, Distant isles of sunset glory, Set beyond the western sea.

Sang of Christ and Mary Mother Hearkening unto angels seven Playing on their golden harp-strings In the far courts of high Heaven."

So they stood by, and listened to his speech, Rhythmic, for that great joy was in his soul: But while they wondered whence he was, and who, He cast his eyes around, and, shuddering, cried: "Who are ye, that I thought to be my brothers? Strangers and sons of strangers! Where are they I left behind me but an hour ago?" Then was there whispering among the throng, And wonder not a little, and some scorn ; Till he that spake, with anguish in his eye, Cried: “Take me to a cell, that I may pray." 'Twas done, and in the golden afternoon A brother entered, and found none within, Only a sere monk’s habit, and much dust, As of a body crumbled in the grave.