A garden breathing flowers through every bound,O mistress of the white-fleeced flock, their guard,
Heaven's eye — and purity blooms where she's found,Thy life's a wilderness — yet when I touch that ground,
That very waste seems almost garden-land around;Alone thou art within thy world, content and still,
With what the fates and passing time may will;O blessed wilderness, refuge for her who grew
Weary of every falsehood from the faithless crew.Passing whispers
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