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The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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Nay, nay, not there the rest from harms,

The still composed breath!

there the folding of the arms, The cool, the blessed death!

That needs no curtained bed to hide

The world with all its wars,

No grassy cover to divide

From sun and moon and stars.

It is a rest that deeper grows

In midst of pain and strife;

A mighty, conscious, willed repose,

The death of deepest life.

To have and hold the precious prize

No need of jealous bars;

windows open to the skies, And skill to read the stars!

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