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Poem by Jones Very
I thank thee, Father, that the night is near When I this conscious being may resign; Whose only task thy words of love to hear, And in thy acts to find each act of mine; A task too great to give a child like me, The myriad-handed labors of the day, Too many for my closing eyes to see, Thy words too frequent for my tongue to say; Yet when thou see'st me burthened by thy love, Each other gift more lovely then appears, For dark-robed night comes hovering from above, And all thine other gifts to me endears; And while within her darkened couch I sleep, Thine eyes untired above will constant vigils keep.
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