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S. M.

Mme. Guion.

Living Waters.

The fountain in its source

No drought of summer fears;

The further it pursues its course,

The nobler it appears.

But shallow cisterns yield

A scanty, short supply;

The morning sees them amply filled,

At evening they are dry.

The cisterns I forsake,

O Fount of life, for Thee!

My thirst with living waters slake,

And drink eternity.

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