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     We sigh above our crowded nets
For fish that never swam.

No bounty of indulgent Heaven
     The vague desire can stay;
Self-love is still a Tartar mill
     For grinding prayers alway.

The dear God hears and pities all;
     He knoweth all our wants;
And what we blindly ask of Him
     His love withholds or grants.

And so I sometimes think our prayers
     Might well be merged in one;
And nest and perch and hearth and church
     Repeat, ‘Thy will be done.’


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1866 AD (1)
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