Poem by James Thomson

* * *

ONCE in a saintly passion
  I cried with desperate grief,
"O Lord, my heart is black with guile,
  Of sinners I am chief."
Then stooped my guardian angel
  And whispered from behind,
"Vanity, my little man,
  You're nothing of the kind."

1. The City of Dreadful Night
2. Proem
3. In the Room
4. The Fire That Filled My Heart of Old
5. Day

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