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Sandy Star Iv

by: William Stanley Braithwaite

_The Way_

He could not tell the way he came,
Because his chart was lost:
Yet all his way was paved with flame
From the bourne he crossed.

He did not know the way to go,
Because he had no map:
He followed where the winds blow,--
And the April sap.

He never knew upon his brow
The secret that he bore,--
And laughs away the mystery now
The dark's at his door.

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