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ISSUE:  Autumn 1937

Ever the hawk will scour a likely field For little mice a-tremble in their fur.
Deep in the singing wood, dead leaves will shield A shattered body, and the brittle stir Of air exploring some small empty skull.
Lax in the spider’s morning web, a fly Hangs like a silver knot, and here a gull Is spread and ruined that brushed a wing with sky.
So has it always been, and so will be:
Day brings no warmth of comfort in her smile;
Night drops her banners without guarantee
Even of one quiet hour to rest awhile.
But only Man, whose subtle toys increase
The peril, slumbers with a dream of peace.


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