Issue 18, Spring 1958
Illusions of the moonlight, pale processions
Of spirits wandering among the trees...
Cries and accusations and confessions...
Even in Hell, said my instructor, these
Accuse themselves. Their own hand plies the stroke
That draws no blood from their faint substances.
They, in the world that is remembered, spoke
The word “I love,” and broke that word. Although
Justice might be persuaded to revoke
Their punishment, they would not have it so.