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... So take the book. Its words are mine;

Mine is the voice

Which through its pages you may hear
Grieve, or rejoice.

But heart and eyes of yearning love
To feel and see

All human grief, or joy, or hope,
You gave to me.

I walked the city's ways, alone
As hermits are,

Because my heart was from your heart
Exiled so far.

Though I was housed, and warmed, and fed,
All want I knew;

All hunger, cold and loneliness,
In wanting you.

From all Life's victims' eyes I saw
The wakeful pain

Which tossed and slept not in my heart
Look back again.

Yet could I hope for these, against
Despair and death;

Because my own hope cannot cease,
Save with my breath.

My heart, like the great city's heart,
Its deep unrest,

Its trouble, half revealed, half hid,
Beneath a jest.


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