Читать книгу Strange Visitors - Henry J. Horn - Страница 17

I rise again above the woes of earth,

Like unchained bird, seeking my native air.

Men seldom see their fellow-creatures' worth,

But blot sweet nature's page, however fair.

Away, my soul, and seek thy nobler state,

Where loving angels breathe their softest prayer,

Where sweetest seraphs for thy coming wait,

And ne'er suspicion's breath can pass the Golden Gate.