A blow is smote, the poet wrote
Lines appear, almost innate, from pen upon
The paper
A yearning presence presses in with thoughts
And visions; senses spin, much to ponder? The coldness
So impersonal, prevalent now in people for the
Doctors of discord; and fear, promoted here
Against the promise of God’s favour the
Scene’s do blind, as evil drives, to be
The soul...
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