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I could have thought the doom 
Which gave to ruin earth, to storms the sky, 
And Man, God’s last best work, unto the tomb, 
Your primal beauty had unharm’d pass’d by. 
But are ye loved the less 
That for our sakes these earth-born traits ye wear ? 
Oh, no ! the very blight which mars your grace, 
And speaks your frailty, makes ye but more dear. 
Nor this your only claim 
On Man’s regard: meekly from glade and bower 
Ye warn and counsel him, as’t were your aim 
To win him back to Paradise once more. 
Yes, each of ye in turn 
Points some pure moral to the human heart; 
One, bending ’neath the storm, to those who mourn 
Lessons of meek endurance may impart; 
Others, that breathe at eve 
Sweet incense, urge to watchfulness and prayer; 
And, with united voice, all bid us leave 
The morrow to our common Father’s care, 
n 3 
