<SPAN name="VII"></SPAN>VII<br/>
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Oh, let it knock upon our door,<br/>
That hand that taps with futile touch;<br/>
We have our joy, the rest—what can it offer more?<br/>
The rest with futile, listless touch?<br/>
Let them pass our door,<br/>
The wearied, mirthless joys<br/>
With their tinsel and their toys.<br/>
Let laughter rise and sound and disappear;<br/>
The crowd move on with million voices clear.<br/>
<br/>
The moment is so fair with light<br/>
In this garden all about;<br/>
The moment is so rare with new-born light<br/>
Deep within us and without!<br/>
Ah, 'tis the part of wisdom, dear;<br/>
No longer seek we those who go<br/>
By the long highway drear,<br/>
With heavy feet and singing low.<br/>
But stay we here, contented as of old,<br/>
Though night itself strike out the sky above,<br/>
Loving within us the idea we hold<br/>
Of this most wondrous, steadfast thing, our love.<br/>
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