No purity—alas, it bears a stain.

You shall not give it gratitude, nor shall you

Recall it all your days, except with pain.

Oh, bless your blindness, glory in your groping!

Mock at your betters with an upward chin!

And when the moment has gone by for hoping,

Sling your fifth stone, O son of mine, and win.

Grief do I give you, grief and dreadful laughter;

Sackcloth for banner, ashes in your wine.

Go forth, go forth, nor ask me what comes after;

The fifth stone shall not fail you, son of mine.

Go forth, go forth, and slay the Philistine.

 NEW YEAR, 1918

A song I never heard

I must rehearse,

Counting each hour a word,

Counting each day a verse.

Not of my proper choice

Raise I my voice,

While others—fierce and strong—

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