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“If I cannot see Thee present I will mourn Thee absent,
for this also is a proof of love”
Thomas à Kempis
We do not find Him on the difficult earth,|
In surging human-kind,
In wayside death or accidental birth,
Or in the “march of mind.”
Nature, her nests, her prey, the fed, the caught,|
Hide Him so well, so well,
His steadfast secret there seems to our thought
Life’s saddest miracle.
He’s but conjectured in man’s happiness,|
Suspected in man’s tears,
Or lurks beyond the long, discouraged guess,
Grown fainter through the years.
|* * * * *|
But absent, absent now? Ah, what is this,|
Near as in child-birth bed,
Laid on our sorrowful hearts, close to a kiss?
A homeless childish head.
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Lane Core Jr. (email@example.com)
Created April 14, 2001; not revised.