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ISSUE:  Winter 1931

THIS is the last oblivion of all That was so wild with fire, so hard with cold,
So desperate with purpose when the bold New earth arose from chaos with a caul Of blinding rain and steam upon the tall And arrogant young mountains, now grown old—
The ruined record by the breakers rolled Along the sea-edge as the ages crawl.
This is oblivion more still and deep
Than the last reach of the ocean floor
Where midnight waters lie in granite sleep.
Gray-feathered, acquiescent,—winds may pour
Across it, drive it on a sliding dune,—
It no more lives or wakes than does the moon.


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