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Poem by George MacDonald
Oft, as I rest in quiet peace, am I Thrust out at sudden doors, and madly driven Through desert solitudes, and thunder-riven Black passages which have not any sky: The scourge is on me now, with all the cry Of ancient life that hath with murder striven. How many an anguish hath gone up to heaven, How many a hand in prayer been lifted high When the black fate came onward with the rush Of whirlwind, avalanche, or fiery spume! Even at my feet is cleft a shivering tomb Beneath the waves; or else, with solemn hush The graveyard opens, and I feel a crush As if we were all huddled in one doom!
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