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" Cogitavi vias meas"

A cry from the green-grained sticks of the fire
Made me gaze where it seemed to be:
'Twas my own voice talking therefrom to me
On how I had walked when my sun was higher —
My heart in its arrogancy.

" You held not to whatsoever was true,"
Said my own voice talking to me:
" Whatsoever was just you were slack to see;
Kept not things lovely and pure in view,"
Said my own voice talking to me.

" You slighted her that endureth all,"
Said my own voice talking to me;
" Vaunteth not, trusteth hopefully;
That suffereth long and is kind withal,"
Said my own voice talking to me.

" You taught not that which you set about,"
Said my own voice talking to me;
" That the greatest of things is Charity. . . ."
— And the sticks burnt low, and the fire went out,
And my voice ceased talking to me.
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