XVII
I rose from dreamless hours and sought the morn
That beat upon my window: from the sill
I watched sweet lands where Autumn light new-born
Swayed through the trees and lingered on the hill.
If things so lovely are, why labour still
To dream of something more than this I see?
Do I remember tales of Galilee,
I who have slain my faith and freed my will?
Let me forget dead faith, dead mystery,
Dead thoughts of things I cannot comprehend.
Enough the light mysterious in the tree,
Enough the faithful friendship of my friend.
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