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ISSUE:  Winter 1933

And now I take no sacredness amiss—
This dawn, the curtains parted, light—
And on the earth the sun so tender is I cannot rise.

I had it measured thus, computed so,
One hour for God and ten for song;
But into day the sun and hours go,
I wait behind.

Wind stirs the trees, the meadow slowly takes
The lighted greening blade by blade
Unto the heron-silences of lakes,
And still I wait.
This is my wrong,
I bade my soul arise
And shape the day, but calmly in
The interim my God thought otherwise,
And I am still.


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