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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.  The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes.  1917.
 
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By Edward Rowland Sill (1841–1887)
 
THERE lies a little city in the hills;
  White are its roofs, dim is each dwelling’s door,
And peace with perfect rest its bosom fills.
 
There the pure mist, the pity of the sea,
  Comes as a white, soft hand, and reaches o’er        5
And touches its still face most tenderly.
 
Unstirred and calm, amid our shifting years,
  Lo! where it lies, far from the clash and roar,
With quiet distance blurred, as if through tears.
 
O heart, that prayest so for God to send        10
  Some loving messenger to go before
And lead the way to where thy longings end,
 
Be sure, be very sure, that soon will come
  His kindest angel, and through that still door
Into the Infinite love will lead thee home.        15
 
 
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