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THE seeking souls, by baleful fires made blind, Torn by entrapping brambles, thirsty and mad, Hear on the lonely waste the stealthy pad And half-held breath of glaring beasts behind; Then soft hands lead them where the weary find A refuge from thought’s hunting and are glad. Why to their certain misery should they add? They rest secure, to freedom’s loss resigned.
So, in the bitter years when love and age |