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  ― 122 ―

As In A Glass Darkly

RAIL not at ramparts reared with human hands,
To break the bounds of petty human pride,
Nor curse red War, nor pray for peace, nor chide
Some puny princeling. Lo, in hidden hands
Slow turns the glass from whence the pallid sands
Of cosmic balance, trickling slow, decide
The judgment of the gods. Poor Masks, ye hide
Under your pageants their supreme commands!

Beneath their rods the man-tides ebb and flow
Like seas beneath the moon. As Asia smote. …
So (while Autochthon, dreamed within his cave
And sank the West beneath the Orient wave). …
Africa's fingers fumble at the throat
Of that old Asia that laid Europe low!

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