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Poem by Eleanor Farjeon
My body having encountered with a soul, Be it my body's care to cherish whole The thing it holds in trust, nor once deny Ears to receive its faintest ghostly cry, Nor count the large advantage of the hour Aught in the scale beside the tiniest flower Breathed of the spirit, nor make dim its eyes To simple truths with things the world names wise. Knowing too well my body's great unworth Such essence to contain and clothe with earth, I dare not be unworthier than I must Lest this my soul be clogged with this my dust, And that wherefor I owe most gratitude Shall in the end the caging clay elude, More soiled and more despoiled, more dragged and sad Than was the thing from God my body had. Even as flame consumes its husk of coal The self must be consumèd by the soul Till liberate from ash it leaps again, Light seeking light, beyond the vision of men, All that is counted I being cast adrift Before the universe in me can lift Up to its level of divinity: Since therefore it has once befallen me Wondrously for a little space to be The vessel to whose charge the highest is given, Pure as I may I'll render it to heaven.
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