A poem by Morris Rosenfeld

Written today, and read today,
And stale the news tomorrow!--
Upon the sands I build... I play!
I play, and weep in sorrow:
"Ah God, dear God! to find cessation
From this soul-crushing occupation!
If but one year ere Thou dost call me Thither,
Lord, at this blighting task let me not wither."

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