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A Jeremiad
Elie Flatto — September 1956
- Abstract
Even I, an ancient panderer, a prophet impotent,
A sterile leaf unwrinkled by God’s fire,
Tonight feel in my sack-clothed loins
The stirrings of a new fermenting power
Raking the dull, dumbed embers of desire;
Even I grow restless and cannot sleep.
Come now, O foolish town! the night is soft
That wafts thee drunken to thy couch of ease,
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