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Unformatted text preview: crying broke my heart. I went away from it, deep into myself where I could hear the poem and say the phrases, trying vainly to figure them out. Let the devil speak his story, Let him rouse the angel's might. But what did it mean to me? Finally I clung to the last verse of it: "Else shall Eden have no Springtime." We were the Springtime, we Mayfairs, I knew it. Eden was our world. We were the Springtime, and the simple word Else meant there was hope. We could be saved somehow. Something could stop the vale of those who mourn! Pain and suffering as they stumble Blood and fear before they learn . . . Yes, there was hope in the poem, a purpose to it, a purpose in its telling! But would I ever live to see the words fulfilled? And nothing struck such horror in me as that sentence: "Slay the flesh that is not human!" for if this thing was not human, what would its powers be? If it was merely St. Ashlar-but that did not seem so! Would it become a man when it was born again? Or something worse? "Slay the flesh that is not human!" Ah, how I troubled over it. How it obsessed my mind. Sometimes there was...
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- Spring '10