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Futility

 Oh, I have tried to laugh the pain away, 
Let new flames brush my love-springs like a feather.
But the old fever seizes me to-day, As sickness grips a soul in wretched weather.
I have given up myself to every urge, With not a care of precious powers spent, Have bared my body to the strangest scourge, To soothe and deaden my heart's unhealing rent.
But you have torn a nerve out of my frame, A gut that no physician can replace, And reft my life of happiness and aim.
Oh what new purpose shall I now embrace? What substance hold, what lovely form pursue, When my thought burns through everything to you?

by Claude McKay
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