I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade
If it form the one landscape that we the inconstant ones Are consistently homesick for, this is chiefly Because it dissolves in water.
There was still gold and silver in the mountains, And hunger was a more immediate sorrow
Sob, heavy world Sob as you spin, Mantled in mist Remote from the happy.
The surest sign that a man has a genuine taste of his own is that he is uncertain of it.
But he would have us most of all remember to be enthusiastic over the night. Not only for the sense of wonder it alone has to offer but also because it needs our love. For with sad eyes its delectable creatures look up and beg us dumbly to ask them to follow. They are exiles who long for a future that lies in our power.
Doom is dark and deeper than any sea-dingle.
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