But as often as that stricken mind would fill

With the great anguish and the rush of hate,

The boy, his young eyes older, older,

Would curve his shoulder

To the other’s pain and hold that haunted face close to his face

And say: “O wait!

You will know me better by and by.

Mon pauvre petit, be still!

Right here’s your place.”

.... The gleam! and then the blinded stare,

The cry:

“Non, tu n’es pas mon frère!”

I saw myself, myself, as blind

As he. And something smothers

My reason. And I do not know my brothers....

But every day declare:

“Non, tu n’es pas mon frère!”

But in the outcome, I can see....

Closer than any brother

Shall they be to one another

 Prev. P 38/58 next