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Poem by George Essex Evans “But the Greatest of These is Charity” White faces turn to us again Sad eyes from out their veils of clay: Strength stricken low, and hopeless pain, Haunt us to-day. Their wild eyes burn across our sleep: They haunt us in the busy throng With silent eloquence, more deep Than word or song. Give: we are pawns upon the board; We see not how Fate’s dice are thrown. The life swung by a trembling cord Might be your own. Give: ’twill be meted back to thee When Death who waits, soe’er we roam, Withdraws the veil that we may see The Lights of Home. George Essex Evans George Essex Evans's other poems: 1188 Views |
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