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Thursday, July 14, 2005


by T. E. Brown

If thou couldst empty all thyself of self,
Like to a shell dishabited,
Then might He find thee on the Ocean shelf,
And say— "This is not dead," —
And fill thee with Himself instead.

But thou art all replete with very thou,
And hast such shrewd activity,
That, when He comes, He says: — "This is enow
Unto itself — ’Twere better let it be:
It is so small and full, there is no room for Me."

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