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Poor Earth

 It is not heaven: bitter seed 
Leavens its entrails with despair 
It is a star where dragons breed: 
Devils have a footing there.
The sky has bent it out of shape; The sun has strapped it to his wheel; Its course is crooked to escape Traps and gins of stone and steel.
It balances on air, and spins Snared by strong transparent space; I forgive it all its sins; I kiss the scars upon its face.

Poem by Elinor Wylie
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