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Agnostic

 The chapel looms against the sky,
 Above the vine-clad shelves,
And as the peasants pass it by
 They cross themselves.
But I alone, I grieve to state, Lack sentiment divine: A citified sophisticate, I make no sign.
Their gesture may a habit be, Mechanic in a sense, Yet somehow it awakes in me Strange reverence.
And though from ignorance it stem, Somehow I deeply grieve, And wish down in my heart like them I could believe.
Suppose a cottage I should buy, And little patch of vine, With pure and humble spirit I Might make the Sign.
Aye, though I godless way I go, And sceptic in my trend, A faith in something I don't know Might save me in the end.

Poem by Robert William Service
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