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N the fair garden of celestial peace

Walketh a Gardener in meekness clad;

Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks,

And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad.

Fair are the silent foldings of his robes,

Falling with saintly calmness to his feet;

And when he walks, each floweret to his will

With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.

Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart,

In the mild summer radiance of his eye;