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THE POET'S PRAYER.
O could my spirit fly from this dark world of woe,
Have brought with them a weight of sin and tears,
And bent this head in sorrow to the gloom
That hangs around an aged sinner's tomb :
From this cold world, nor leave this house of clay;
It is thy home-He wills it thy abode.
Bow down thy head, and say-Thy will, not mine, be done,