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say the world is full of fear and hate, And all life's ripening harvest-fields await The restless sickle of relentless fate.

But I, sweet Soul, rejoice that I was born, When from the climbing terraces of corn I watch the golden orioles of Thy morn.

What care I for the world's desire and pride, Who know the silver wings that gleam and glide, The homing pigeons of Thine eventide?

What care I for the world's loud weariness, Who dream in twilight granaries Thou dost bless With delicate sheaves of mellow silences?

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