From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, ‘A thousand types are gone: I care for nothing, all shall go. ‘Thou
makest thine appeal to me:
Man,
her last work, who seem’d so fair,
Who
trusted God was love indeed
Who
loved, who suffer’d countless ills,
No
more? A monster then, a dream,
O
life as futile, then, as frail!
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