Aug 272011
 

There, amid the wrong middle of this wood,--
Where God himself must stand and choose
Or find himself unable, caught between good and good,
Sweet songs that rise from the geese in the dawn
And travel without a quaver in the air
Until they alight on some rich man's crowded lawn
Or empty lot abandoned by all but the wind's stir--
Some ancient, contemptuous king or passionate
Poverty-stricken man cries out his heart
And lays his head bare in the miserable dust
In eternal revelation of his time-bound character
Before the bawdy wind can close the gate.

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