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Poem	When He appoints to meet thee, go thou forth— It matters not If south or north, Bleak waste or sunny plot. Nor think, if haply He thou seek’st be late, He does thee wrong. To stile or gate Lean thou thy head, and long! It may be that to spy thee He is mounting Upon a tower, Or in thy counting Thou hast mista’en the hour. But, if He comes not, neither do thou go Till Vesper chime. Belike thou then shalt know He hath been with thee all the time.
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