[Written for the Sentinel]


Man, the most precious image of his God,His being for immortal glory wrought,Yet seems to mortal sense sprung from the clod,Robed in earth's clouding mists of erring thought.

What is this seeming life we live as clay—This strange unlikeness in its finitude?What is this brief, unlovely, earthy day?A lull in Life's sweet song, an interlude

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