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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:
  1. Ad Astra
  2. At the Base Hospital
  3. The Secret Key
  4. The Grey Road
  5. Kara


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