There is a book wherein we sometimes see
A dim reflection of the face of God;
Awful at times these writings seem to be,
And oft they blossom forth as Aaron’s rod,
With flower of tender almond-breathing love,
Such love as mortal of immortal dreams,
And time itself is far too brief to prove,
For though the seasons change, this ever gleams
As an Eternal Will.-But most we find
In this wide book writ by the human soul,
In deeds that last, or music of the mind,
A voice august to man for self-control,
That he may reach the utmost strength of bliss
When hope and deed renew blessed harmonies.
(John William Inchbold)
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