Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 12

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XII "EVERY MAN FOR HIS OWN HAND"
I may not call what many call divine,And yet my faith is faith in its degree;I worship at a dim and lonely shrine    On bended knee.
The secret grace of faith's celestial partI hoard up safely for mine own self's own;Within the hidden chambers of the heart    I love alone.
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