Summer 1952 • Vol. XIV No. 3 Poetry |

Rumor

I smile that Satan died,---that rumor Wishful, beats round the town, While every evening vicious in the twilight A star falls down, And every morning vicious in the garden A worm destroys the innocence of leaf, And all my days the books that make me scholar Are vice enough. That Satan died Satan himself has whispered In the pure and subtle ear Of every friend, citizen, and comrade To make them yet more pure.

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I smile that Satan died,---that rumor Wishful, beats round the town, While every evening vicious in the twilight A star falls down, And every morning vicious in the garden A […]

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