to mete out magics is no complex task
a sterner duty comes to try the heart
we leave the hangman to his gentle
art
and do not hear the hungry when they
ask
for dryest crumbs nor grant drops
from the flask
compassion is not what we would call
smart
just fling the bodies on the diggers'
cart
and do not seek to look behind the
mask
so many lies and all upon the page
that hide plain fact behind a
scrim of glare
we would not have you see the world
entire
as simple subject for your honest
rage
nor yet as calling forth a word of
rage
respectful silence now until the fire