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Mockery

God, I return to You on April days
   When along country roads You walk with me,
   And my faith blossoms like the earliest tree
That shames the bleak world with its yellow sprays --
My faith revives, when through a rosy haze
   The clover-sprinkled hills smile quietly,
   Young winds uplift a bird's clean ecstasy . . .
For this, O God, my joyousness and praise!

But now -- the crowded streets and choking airs,

   The squalid people, bruised and tossed about;
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