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SEVENTH SONG
THE LURE OF DREAMS
Worn by the desperate voyage and dreary,
Under the trees thou liest weary.
Now art thou bewailing
The freedom missed in thy dreamful sailing.
Now hast thou for wending
Endless ways, frustration unending.
Now?
Whither beckons thy doom?
Yielding thee up—but to what and to whom?
Seest thou where her veil she raises
With her fair white hands, upreaching
To the throne of grace, and gazes
Fervently in her beseeching?
Like doves homing
Are the prayers she breathes when roaming
Through earth’s byways,
As she seeks the heavenly highways,
Notes of love divinely cooing,
In her bosom peace renewing.
Thou?— Driven onward, thy burden bearing,
Knowing no helper, or whither art faring.
Through fog-banks thou goest
Aimless and blind, and no guidance thou knowest.
On dost thou mind thee?
All that thou dost but the tighter doth bind thee.
Say!
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