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The Wave

ISSUE:  Winter 1934

It rises, over the deep it rises, roving Through the sea-sleeping men,
Strewing the broken bones of men; and moving Again, again,
Drowned hearts of men into the second motion
Not the lost motion of blood,
It moves, and blows into the inner ocean
The thinner flood
Of light above the water’s waste.
It wanders,
It is the water’s hand Rising, and from the sleeping shore it sunders
The sleeping sand, And through the endless ague of water’s weaving
Atoms of sand descend And our pure thoughts of sand, beyond retrieving
Approach their end:
Pillars of thought are broken, bring the utter
Cessation of all breath And through the waves of thought the waves of water
Are threading death.


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