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 THE low-voiced girls that go 
In gardens of the Lord, 
Like flowers of the field they grow 
In sisterly accord.
Their whispering feet are white Along the leafy ways; They go in whirls of light Too beautiful for praise.
And in their band forsooth Is one to set me free-- The one that touched my youth-- The one God gave to me.
She kindles the desire Whereby the gods survive-- The white ideal fire That keeps my soul alive.
Now at the wondrous hour, She leaves her star supreme, And comes in the night’s still power, To touch me with a dream.
Sibyl of mystery On roads unknown to men, Softly she comes to me, And goes to God again.

by Edwin Markham
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