Αγνωστω. Θεω by Thomas Hardy

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LONG have I framed weak phantasies of Thee, / O Willer masked and dumb! / Who makest Life become,- / As though by labouring all-unknowingly, / Like one whom reveries numb.

How much of consciousness informs Thy will / Thy biddings, as if blind, / Of death-inducing kind, / Nought shows to us ephemeral ones who fill / But moments in Thy mind.

Perhaps Thy ancient rote-restricted ways / Thy ripening rule transcends; / That listless effort tends / To grow percipient with advance of days, / And with percipience mends.

For, in unwonted purlieus, far and nigh, / At whiles or short or long, / May be discerned a wrong / Dying as of self-slaughter; whereat I / Would raise my voice in song.

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