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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.