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by the sunset's crimson glow,
 * That all the dreaming landscape glorifies,
 * The peasants wait, while softly swells and dies

Across the furrowed fields the Angelus low; Earth-stained and worn with toil, how should they know
 * What loveliness around and in them lies—
 * Seen with the passion of a painter's eyes,

Who once divined and fixed it long ago?

To me, beholding, comes the quickening thought
 * That we so close to earth, bowed with the stress

Of daily toil and hopes that come to naught—
 * Our senses dulled with grieving—hardly guess

What meaning from it all might not be wrought
 * To beauty by some higher consciousness.