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Poem	Than Heaven more remote, For Heaven is the root, But these the flitted seed. More flown indeed Than ones that never were, Or those that hide, and are. What madness, by their side, A vision to provide Of future days They cannot praise. My soul, to find them, come, They cannot call, they're dumb, Nor prove, nor woo, But that they have abode Is absolute as God, And instant, too.
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