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AND AFTER I HAD MUSED A TIME,
I SAID OF MYSELF,
“FOOL!”
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THERE WAS A MAN AND A WOMAN
WHO SINNED.
THEN DID THE MAN HEAP THE PUNISHMENT
ALL UPON THE HEAD OF HER,
AND WENT AWAY GAYLY.
THERE WAS A MAN AND A WOMAN
WHO SINNED.
AND THE MAN STOOD WITH HER.
AS UPON HER HEAD, SO UPON HIS,
FELL BLOW AND BLOW,
AND ALL PEOPLE SCREAMING, “FOOL!”
HE WAS A BRAVE HEART.
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HE WAS A BRAVE HEART.
WOULD YOU SPEAK WITH HIM, FRIEND?
WELL, HE IS DEAD,
AND THERE WENT YOUR OPPORTUNITY.
LET IT BE YOUR BRIEF
THAT HE IS DEAD
AND YOUR OPPORTUNITY GONE;
FOR, IN THAT, YOU WERE A COWARD.
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THERE WAS A MAN WHO LIVED A LIFE OF FIRE.
EVEN UPON THE FABRIC OF TIME,
WHERE PURPLE BECOMES ORANGE
AND ORANGE PURPLE,
THIS LIFE GLOWED,
A DIRE RED STAIN, INDELIBLE;
YET WHEN HE WAS DEAD,
HE SAW THAT HE HAD NOT LIVED.
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THERE WAS A GREAT CATHEDRAL.
TO SOLEMN SONGS,
A WHITE PROCESSION
MOVED TOWARD THE ALTAR.
THE CHIEF MAN THERE
WAS ERECT, AND BORE HIMSELF PROUDLY.
YET SOME COULD SEE HIM CRINGE,
AS IN A PLACE OF DANGER,
THROWING FRIGHTENED GLANCES INTO THE AIR,
A-START AT THREATENING FACES OF THE PAST.
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FRIEND, YOUR WHITE BEARD SWEEPS THE GROUND.
WHY DO YOU STAND, EXPECTANT?
DO YOU HOPE TO SEE IT
IN ONE OF YOUR WITHERED DAYS?
WITH OUR OLD EYES
DO YOU HOPE TO SEE
THE TRIUMPHAL MARCH OF JUSTICE?
DO NOT WAIT, FRIEND?
TAKE YOUR WHITE BEARD
AND YOUR OLD EYES
TO MORE TENDER LANDS.
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ONCE, I KNEW A FINE SONG,
—IT IS TRUE, BELIEVE ME,—
IT WAS ALL OF BIRDS,
AND I HELD THEM IN A BASKET;
WHEN I OPENED THE WICKET,
HEAVENS! THEY ALL FLEW AWAY.
I CRIED, “COME BACK, LITTLE THOUGHTS!”
BUT THEY ONLY LAUGHED.
THEY FLEW ON
UNTIL THEY WERE AS SAND
THROWN BETWEEN ME AND THE SKY.
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IF I SHOULD CAST OFF THIS TATTERED COAT,
AND GO FREE INTO THE MIGHTY SKY;
IF I SHOULD FIND NOTHING THERE
BUT A VAST BLUE,
ECHOLESS, IGNORANT,—
WHAT THEN!
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GOD LAY DEAD IN HEAVEN;
ANGELS SANG THE HYMN OF THE END;
PURPLE WINDS WENT MOANING,
THEIR WINGS DRIP-DROPPING
WITH BLOOD
THAT FELL UPON THE EARTH.
IT, GROANING THING,
TURNED BLACK AND BANK.
THEN FROM THE FAR CAVERNS
OF DEAD SINS
CAME MONSTERS, LIVID WITH DESIRE.
THEY FOUGHT,
WRANGLED OVER THE WORLD,
A MORSEL.
BUT OF ALL SADNESS THIS WAS SAD,—
A WOMAN’S ARMS TRIED TO SHIELD
THE HEAD OF A SLEEPING MAN
FROM THE JAWS OF THE FINAL BEAST.
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A SPIRIT SPED
THROUGH SPACES OF NIGHT;
AND AS HE SPED, HE CALLED,
“GOD! GOD!”
HE WENT THROUGH VALLEYS
OF BLACK DEATH-SLIME,
EVER CALLING,
“GOD! GOD!”
THEIR ECHOES
FROM CREVICE AND CAVERN
MOCKED HIM:
“GOD! GOD! GOD!”
FLEETLY INTO THE PLAINS OF SPACE
HE WENT, EVER CALLING,
“GOD! GOD!”
EVENTUALLY, THEN HE SCREAMED,
MAD IN DENIAL,
“AH, THERE IS NO GOD!”
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A SWIFT HAND,
A SWORD FROM THE SKY,
SMOTE HIM,
AND HE WAS DEAD.
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PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON CAMBRIDGE
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