Page:Poems and extracts - Wordsworth.djvu/104

  Dear Lord, receive my Son, whose winning love To me was like a friendship, far above The course of nature, or his tender age, Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage; Let his pure soul ordained seven years to be In that frail body which was part of me. Remain my pledge with Heaven, as sent to shew. How to this port at every step I go.

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