Issue 16, Spring-Summer 1957
I woke by first light in a wood
Right in the shadow of a hill
And saw about me in a circle
Many I knew, the dear faces
Of some I recognized as friends.
I knew that I had lost my way.
I asked if any knew the way.
They stared at me like blocks of wood.
They turned their backs on me, those friends.
And struggled up the stubborn hill
Along that road which makes a circle.
No longer could I see their faces.