This covert have all the children
Early aged, and often cold, --
Sparrows unnoticed by the Father;
Lambs for whom time had not a fold.
As by the dead we love to sit,
Become so wondrous dear,
As for the lost we grapple,
Though all the rest are here, --
In broken mathematics
We estimate our prize,
Vast, in its fading ratio,
To our penurious eyes!
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