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From "The City of the Soul"
by Alfred Douglas ((1870-?)
Each new hour's passage in the acolyte
Of inarticulate song and syllable,
        And every passing moment is a bell
To mourn the dead of undiscerned delight.
Where is the sun that made the noonday bright,
        And where the midnight moon?  O let us tell,
        In long carved line and painted parable,
How the white road curves down into the night.

Only to build one crystal barrier
        Against this sea which bats upon our days;
                To ransom one lost moment with a rhyme!
Or if fate cries and grudging dogs demur,
        To clutch Life's hair, and thrust one naked phrase
                Like a lean knife between the ribs of Time.


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