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     On minster tower and kloster cross,
The westering sunshine fell.

There, where the rock-hewn circles
     O'erlooked the Roman's game,
The veil of sleep fell on him,
     And his thought a dream became.

He felt the heart of silence
     Throb with a soundless word,
And by the inward ear alone
     A spirit's voice he heard.

And the spoken word seemed written
     On air and wave and sod,
And the bending walls of sapphire
     Blazed with the thought of God:

“What lack I, O my children?
     All things are in my hand;
The vast earth and the awful stars
     I hold as grains of sand.

Need I your alms? The silver
     And gold are mine alone;
The gifts ye bring before me
     Were evermore my own.

Heed I the noise of viols,
     Your pomp of masque and show?
Have I not dawns and sunsets?
     Have I not winds that blow?

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