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So many hills arising, green and grey,
On Earth's large round; and that one hill to say:
“I was His bearing-place!” On Earth's wide breast
So many maids! and She—of all most blest—
Heavily mounting Bethlehem—to be
His Mother! Holy Maid of Galilee!
Hill, with the olives and the little town!
If rivers from their crystal founts flow down,
If 'twas the Dawn which did Day's gold unbar,
Ye were beginnings of the best we are,
The most we see, the highest that we know,
The lifting heavenward of Man's life below.

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Therefore, though better lips ye shall not lack,
Suffer, if one of modern mood steals back—
Weary and wayworn, from the Desert-road
Of barren Thought; from Hope's Dead Sea which glowed
With's Love's fair mirage; from the Poet's haunt,
The Scholar's lamp, the Statesman's scheme, the vaunt,
The failure, of all fond Philosophies,—
Back unto Thee, back to thy olive-trees,
Thy people, and thy story, and thy Son,
Mary of Nazareth! so long agone
Bearing us Him Who made our Christendom,
And came to save the Earth, from Heav'n, His home.