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120 So trusting, believing, and loving, these foolish dreams of a child, I dreamt of the joy of living in a world so undefiled. Ah! blighted my hope’s young promise by that same cold world’s breath. I am weary; grant me the shade of thy wings, that I may rest, O Death!

Weave wreaths of Truth’s fair blossoms for my home when my lips are mute. I gathered its rosy apples and found them hut Dead Sea fruit, And take from the world’s garden my flowers that Hope planted there, That, turning to weeds in their growing, were culled by the hand of Despair. Weary of worldly sorrows, of longings unfilled and regret, Grant me the shade of your wings, O Peace! that I may sleep and forget.