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The Gift

ISSUE:  Autumn 1941

Now, when air’s ashen cheek
Is damp as sorrow’s own,
And spring herself would groan
If she had breath to speak;
When heaven is one cloud
Wrapping from head to feet
Cold roof and blank-eyed street,
As in a faceless shroud;
Now when the mad are free
To rage, deceive, and rule:
Sly pupils in the school
Of nature’s treachery;
When every act must wear
Some odor of old wrongs,
And faith’s a rag belongs
To beggars who go bare;
What refuge shall we get
From misery? How face
The bill of a disgrace
Too monstrous to be met?
This pain will find no cure.
Suffice it for our part
That fate gave man the heart
To suffer and endure.


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