ISSUE: Autumn 1940
The spider’s coil is limned with dew,
The bat falls blind against the gate;
And every shadowy wing that flew Mysterious and great
The frosty branch holds light entwined;
And now no snare, no quavering sound That dawn has not defined.
Now man, so long awake, may rise And walk the paths the sun will chart.
And though he cannot yet disguise The shadow on his heart,
What fear remains is less by day.
He knows the path his heart must take;
He asks no more than that he may Be certain how it break.