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148 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1953
And so we passed that land and the weight of its mystery.
We passed the mystery of years and their logic,
And I have been a stranger in many nations.
I have been a stranger in my bed at night,
And with a stranger.
I have been a stranger when the waiter turned for my order.
I have been a stranger at the breaking of break.
For isolation is the common lot
Which makes all mankind one.
And there was Smithland.
No, not Sam Clemens' town now, after all.
Sure, there's the jail, courthosue, and river,
And even now it's no metropolis,
In spite of a traffic signal, red and green,
And paint on houses, and new stores,
And money jingling in the local jeans.
Who would begrudge such solvency?
And who's to blame if there's a correlation
Between it and the dark audit of blood
In some Korean bunker, at the midnight concussion?
Yes, who's to blame? For in the great bookkeeping
Of History, what ledger has balanced yet?