A good meal can somewhat repair
The eatings of slight love;
The trees stand in the setting sun,
I in their freckled shade
Regard the cavalcade of sin,
Remorse for foolish action done,
That pass like ghosts regardless, in
A human image made;
Though living is a dreadful thing
And a dreadful thing is it--
Life the niggard will not thank,
She will not teach who will not sing,
And what serves, on the final bank,
Our logic and our wit?
All the familiar horrors we
Associate with others
Are coming fast along our way:
The wind is warning in our tree
And morning papers still betray
The shrieking of the mothers.
Around, the night drops swiftly down
Its veils; does not condemn
Or praise the different actions done.
The hour that strikes across the town
Caresses all and injures none
As sleep approaches them.
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