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[145] Which brings to God's all-perfect will
     That trust of His undoubting child
Whereby all seeming good and ill
     Are reconciled.

And, seeking not for special signs
     Of favor, is content to fall
Within the providence which shines
     And rains on all.

Alone, the Thebaid hermit leaned
     At noontime o'er the sacred word.
Was it an angel or a fiend
     Whose voice he heard?

It broke the desert's hush of awe,
     A human utterance, sweet and mild;
And, looking up, the hermit saw
     A little child.

A child, with wonder-widened eyes,
     O'erawed and troubled by the sight
Of hot, red sands, and brazen skies,
     And anchorite.

“What dost thou here, poor man? No shade
     Of cool, green palms, nor grass, nor well,
Nor corn, nor vines.” The hermit said:
     “With God I dwell.

Alone with Him in this great calm,
     I live not by the outward sense;
My Nile his love, my sheltering palm
     His providence. “

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