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Among all human vicissitudes—

Aloneness,  disease, penury—

There is nothing I fear more

Than the soul’s complicit atrophy.


If looking inward I should find

A soul slinking with furtive eyes,

I will know the hour has come

When cunning disfigures symphonies.


What human work may yield a fruit

That outlasts hate, untruth, bigotry,

If that work should issue from

A soul in crooked jeopardy?


Where be the soul, they often ask,

That we may watch its buts and ifs;

The soul is most in an honest eye,

And in the feel of finger tips.

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