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Sonnets 1 / 06
Not sometimes, but to him that heeds the whole
And in the Ample reads his personal page,
Laboring to reconcile, content, assuage
The vexed condition of his heritage,
Forever waits an angel at the goal.
And ills seem but as food for spirits sage,
And grief becomes a dark apparelage,
The weed and wearing of the sacred soul.
Might I but count, but here, one watchlight spark!
But vain, O vain this turning for the light,
Vain as a groping hand to rend the dark--
I call, entangled in the night, a night
Of wind and voices, but the gusty roll
Is vague, nor comes their cheer of pilotage.

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