Less or more,
I suppose that I spoke thus.
When,-have mercy, Lord, on us!
The whole face turned upon me full.
And I spread myself beneath it,
As when the bleacher spreads, to seethe it
In the cleansing sun, his wool,-
Steeps in the flood of noontide whiteness
Some defiled, discolored web-
So lay I, saturate with brightnes
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