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"Entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd,

unknown to me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity

upon many a fleeting moment." This is no longer the sanctity of

the cell and of the scourge; being but a lifting up, as it were,

into a greater intensity of the mood of the painter, painting the

dust and the sunlight, and we go for a like voice to St. Francis

and to William Blake who have seemed so alien in our violent

history.

III