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Father of me, thou art my bliss secure.

Make of me, maker, whatsoe’er thou wilt.
Let fancy’s wings hang moulting, hope grow poor,
And doubt steam up from where a joy was spilt–
I lose no time to reason it plain and clear,
But fly to thee, my life’s perfection dear:–
Not what I think, but what thou art, makes sure.

GM

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musician, videographer, new media specialist, producer, imaginator

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New Song! hear the drum