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Toward Morning

ISSUE:  Summer 1930

THIS bond of spirit that I have to break,
This carven candle flame I am to quench,
Loosens no corded fibre at my wrench,
Flickers no inch for any breath I take;
The nervous shackle and the waiting spark,
For all that time goes pacing through the night,
Admit no freedom, no redeeming dark,
From you who set the lock and struck the light.
But sharper than the manacle, more hard Than jealous keen derision of the flame,
Would be to waken to a door unbarred By cynic pity, wearied of the game,
To find at pallid imminence of dawn The cell unfurnished and the keeper gone.


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