Riding home

Now I know

On a moonless night of cloud that feels like frost

It's God that speaks to us when we're bewitched,

(For, though I knew His love Who fol

lowèd,

Yet was I sore adread

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And a Voice above their beat- 50 "Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me."

beside.)

strayed

For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed.

Ah! is Thy love indeed

A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,

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