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PHOCAS
“Nevertheless” (to the blue sky
His wither’d hands he rais’d),
“What thing soever Thee shall please,
That granting, Lord, to me and these,
Blessed be Thou! and evermore
By every creature prais’d!”
. . . Noon, coming, saw ’mid that fair close,
All fragrant, still and bright,
One barren mound, set guardian-wise
With flowers, on whose rejoicing eyes
The absolute high sun pour’d down
His strong unshadow’d light.
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