How oft the word which we would gladly speakMight be, unto some darkly groping soul,The key to bid doubt's massive doors unroll,The free winds' breath upon the prisoner's cheek,Or. to the hungry heart, sweet pity's dole!We hurry on, nor know that they are near,As passed Evangeline the one so dear.
Were I so tall to reach the pole,Or grasp the ocean with my span,I must be measured by my soul;The mind's the standard of the man.Isaac Watts
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