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The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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If thou hadst built a temple, how my eye Had hungering fed thereon, from low-browed crypt Up to the soaring pinnacles that, tipt With stars, gave signal when the sun drew nigh! Dark caverns in and under; vivid sky Its home and aim! Say, from the glory slipt, And down into the shadows dropt and dipt, Or reared from darkness up so holy-high?-- Thou build'st the temple of thy holy ghost From hid foundation to high-hidden fate-- Foot in the grave, head at the heavenly gate, From grave and sky filled with a fighting host! Man is thy temple; man thy work elect; His glooms and glory thine, great architect!

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