the child unlucky in his little State, Some hearth where freedom is excluded, A hive whose honey is fear and worry, Feels calmer now and somehow assured of escape
I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade
Doom is dark and deeper than any sea-dingle.
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
In headaches and in worry Vaguely life leaks away, And Time will have his fancy To-morrow or today.
Composing mortals with immortal fire.
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