  The depth and dream of my desire, The bitter paths wherein I stray, Thou knowest, Who hast made the fire, Thou knowest, Who hast made the clay. One stone the more swings to her place In that dread temple of Thy Worth, It is enough that through Thy grace I saw naught common on Thy earth. Take not that vision from my ken; O, whatsoe'er may spoil or speed, Help me to need no aid from men That I may help such men as need. —Rudyard Kipling. |
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