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Poem	O gentle weariness, Thine is the power that can all spirits free From bonding-trouble, thou art a goddess To all the suffering slaves of misery. Thy sanctuary No suppliant vainly seeketh; wheresoe’er Desperate grief is, then unfailingly Is thine all-hallowing rest & refuge there. Our sorrow hath outgrown Solace, yet still in thine all-mothering hand Is balm of soft oblivion, who alone Our never-ending needs dost understand.
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