The wind revels in the quiet night . . .
The Lord has marked the coming day
in a black draft, so as to recreate it
on a clean white copy, and the sky
will be bright in a moment
and will flare in a crimson strip . . .
Is it possible to live without an ideal,
without an absolute, without
that unarguable beginning--
one for all the universe,
without faith, as though in this world--
crazy, sorrowful, arrant,
everything one bright day
must as in childhood coincide with an answer,
that is given in my book of problems?
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