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All's well.

the clouds, which rise with thunder, slake
     Our thirsty souls with rain;
The blow most dreaded falls to break
     From off our limbs a chain;
And wrongs of man to man but make
     The love of God more plain.
As through the shadowy lens of even
     The eye looks farthest into heaven
On gleams of star and depths of blue
     The glaring sunshine never knew!

1850.

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1850 AD (1)
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