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And I am deadly sick of men, From shame and not from pride ;
My love of souls, my joy in saints, Are blossoms that have died.
It seems as if I loathed the earth, And yet craved not for Heaven,
But for another nature longed, Not that which Thou hast given.
For goodness all ignoble seems,
Ungenerous and small, And the holy are so wearisome,
Their very virtues pall.
Alas ! this peevishness with good
Is want of love of God; Unloving thoughts within distort The look of things abroad. v
The discord is within, which jars
So sadly in life's song: 'Tis we, not they, who are in fault,
When others seem so wrong.
'Tis we who weigh upon ourselves;
Self is the irksome weight: To those who can see straight themselv
All things look always straight.