Spring 1943 • Vol. V No. 2 Poetry |

Aetat 50

Will it be more of this that century day, If day at all, if number, if I live, Will it be this and better: what I know now Doubled at least? I say it must, the learner Willing. But there is chance, and damp decay, And horrible dry eld. I know, I know; But these things too have I, sometimes unwillingly, Learned. Shall I rehearse them, or do all men, Halfway between the crying and the cracking, Honor with me the school my boyhood scorned? No matter. It is my account, beginning With ritual's beauty, learned at my father's grave. No apple cheeks, no pouting, but a full Brown figure that refuses to grow old, Having no age; except it is not young Nor tattered; it is all that sweeps between, As the sea does, adding its salt to raindrops, Then sweetening earth's crust from shore to shore. Ritual, in repetition's colors, Borrowing the brown, the sometimes grey, Ritual, in repetition's language, Borrowing that monotone, declares How wide it is between our woeful boundaries, The co

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