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the blessedness, dwelling alone,

Filled with the peace to the worldly unknown,

As in a mirror the Bridegroom to see,

Fearing no peril nor toil that can be!

This is a joy that costs trouble and care,

Fleeting, and broken, and utterly rare:

For a long warfare is all of our life,—

Little of peace, and abundance of strife.

For that iniquity now hath increased,

Therefore true love waxeth cold, and hath ceased:

Sharp contradictions beset us about;

Faintings within us, and fightings without.