On the Eve of 1947
by Walter Benton
With four and some years lost playing war . . . cancel another.
Cross out a year of seasons, of nights and mornings___
a wasted year
of radio and movie evenings . . . Sundays of pointless solitaire.
And this . . . the richest of our expectant time,
with youth enough still to be strong and years just right to be
wiser than we really are___
and never a greater need for the therapy of love.
We built a house and locked ourselves out.
We kindled a fire and sought chance firesides for warmth.
We lighted a lamp then followed jack-o'-latern in the night.
I wonder . . . some late day, when all your world
has shrunk into a pinch of dust between a miser's fingers____
will remembering comfort you, my dear ?
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