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A Violinist

THE LARK above our heads doth know  
A heaven we see not here below;  
She sees it, and for joy she sings;  
Then falls with ineffectual wings.  
 
Ah, soaring soul! faint not nor tire!
Each heaven attained reveals a higher.  
Thy thought is of thy failure; we  
List raptured, and thank God for thee.

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