The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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XV.

Yet

sometimes when the agony Dies of its own excess,

A dew-like calm descends on me,

A shadow of tenderness;

A sense of bounty and of grace,

A cool air in my breast,

As if my soul were yet a place

Where peace might one day rest.

God! God! I say, and cry no more,

But rise, and think to stand

Unwearied at the closed door

Till comes the opening hand.

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