| A POOR torn heart, a tattered heart, |
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| That sat it down to rest, |
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| Nor noticed that the ebbing day |
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| Flowed silver to the west, |
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| Nor noticed night did soft descend | 5 |
| Nor constellation burn, |
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| Intent upon the vision |
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| Of latitudes unknown. |
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| The angels, happening that way, |
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| This dusty heart espied; | 10 |
| Tenderly took it up from toil |
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| And carried it to God. |
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| There,—sandals for the barefoot; |
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| There,—gathered from the gales, |
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| Do the blue havens by the hand | 15 |
Lead the wandering sails.
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