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Poem by James Thomson


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ONCE in a saintly passion
  I cried with desperate grief,
"O Lord, my heart is black with guile,
  Of sinners I am chief."
Then stooped my guardian angel
  And whispered from behind,
"Vanity, my little man,
  You're nothing of the kind."



James Thomson


James Thomson's other poems:
  1. The City of Dreadful Night
  2. In the Room
  3. Proem
  4. Day
  5. The Fire That Filled My Heart of Old


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