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The Wayfarers
The Wayfarers

Earth careth for her own: the fox lies down
In her warm bosom, and it asks no more.
The bird, content, brood in its lowly nest,
Or, its fine essence stirred, with wing outflown,

Circles in airy rounds to heaven’s own door,
And folds again its plume upon her breast.
Ye, too, for whom her palaces arise,
Whose Tyrian vestments sweep the kindred ground,

Whose golden chalice Ivy-Baccus dyes,
She, kindly mother, liveth in your eyes,
And no strange anguish may your lives astound.

But ye, O pale, lone watchers for the true,
She knoweth not. In her ye have not found
Place for your stricken head, wet with the midnight.

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