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It is precisely at times like these
when all the future seems clouded before
a sunny window, and a poem is
an efflorescence on things tangible:
leaves frying in the silent sunlight and
flowers stiff like candle-flame of weather:
it is precisely at times like these
that the course open to the soul is clearest.
Human honour involved low or lacking;
material prospects incredibly
absent; and from the dispelling, only
the peace of Christ perpetual, putting
the trees outside in the sunny window,
and the flowers, once more in perspective.
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