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by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

   I am sorry in the gladness
      Of the joys that crown my days,
   For the souls that sit in sadness
      Or walk uninviting ways.

   On the radiance of my labour
      That a loving fate bestowed,
   Falls the shadow of my neighbour,
      Crushed beneath a thankless load.

   As the canticle of pleasure
      From my lovelit altar rolls,
   There is one discordant measure,
      As I think of homeless souls.

   And I know that grim old story,
      Preached from pulpits, is not so,
   For no God could sit in glory
      And see sinners writhe below.

   In that great eternal Centre
      Where all human life has birth,
   Boundless love and pity enter
      And flow downward to the earth.

   And all souls in sin or sorrow
      Are but passing through the night,
   And I know on some to-morrow
      God will love them into light.


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