Текст оригинала на английском языке
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I CAN not count my life a loss, With all its length of evil days. I hold them only as the dross About its gold, whose worth outweighs; For each and all I give Him praise. For, drawing nearer to the brink That leadeth down to final rest, I see with clearer eyes, I think; And much that vexed me and oppressed, Have learned was right, and just, and best. So, though I may but dimly guess Its far intent, this gift of His I honor; nor would know the less One sorrow, or in pain or bliss Have other than it was and is.
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