| The world is charged with the grandeur of God
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| It will flame out, like shining from shook foil
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| It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
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| Crushed. |
| Why do men then now not wreck his rod?
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| Generations have trod, have trod, have trod
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| And all is seared with trade bleared, smeared with toil
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| And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
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| Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod
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| And for all this, nature is never spent
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| There lives the dearest freshness deep down things
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| And though the last lights off the black West went
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| Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs
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| Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
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| World broods with warm breast and bright wings
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| Bright wings
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| The world is charged with the grandeur of God
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| Generations have trod, have trod, have trod
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| The world is charged with the grandeur of God
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| (Bright wings)
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| Generations have trod, have trod, have trod
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| Bright wings
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| Bright wings
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| Bright wings
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| Bright wings |