| Oh, the village of the hill
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| Sitting silently at will
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| Like some prophecy forgotten by an age
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| With no guns before its gate
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| The mysterious estate
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| Lies waiting for its history’s dawning page
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| With the raging of the sea before its height
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| And the strength of those whom see beyond their sight
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| Oh, the smithies anvil rings
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| And the symphony it sings
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| No voice nor poet’s pen can put to tune
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| And electric lines of force
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| Ring around the humble lives
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| Of the souls that hear the master saying soon
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| With the clouds that gather near disturb the night
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| Striking flashes of a difference, fleeing fright
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| No slight of tongue nor hand
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| Can so boldly there withstand
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| When the spirit of it’s truth shall speak the time
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| And no ignorance of life
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| Can be held within the sight
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| Of the buttresses of ageless binds of time
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| The communion of the forces take delight
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| With the fear that no tongues may read nor write
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| White Light
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| Oh the village of the hill
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| Sitting silently still
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| With the strength of ages past they’re still at hand
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| Reckons not to look behind
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| But to look within and find
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| And to hear of those enlightened by the lamb
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| With the powers of the wind both fierce and light
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| And the waters of the storm went through the night |