Give me a while this world in morn,
Sail hither lightly a wording mourned,
Feels lightly but treads the ways at dawn,
Hails a fettered Saint, his to God ere bored,
Silently finds himself near, but yet finds ydrink
From there his blood congealed, congealed as were,
Alas, alas; with him did pass away.

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Life, Mysterious, Poetry, Works
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