Chicago Jewish Forum 4 (1945-46): 104

The foul eye deeply indifferent
Lies asleep in earth's disorder.
The singing, unimpassioned flame—
Its early chill the mood of blood.
 
In this autumn pride, the kin of Job
Accepts once more the untamed grief:
The sound of flame has sanctified his bones,
Feathered by smoke, purified by sleep.
 
And now the leaves lack the weight
Of wisdom, the habit of condemned flesh.
There is treason in every reason—
The tears betrayed in transparent praise.
 
See, October-light on each hand tastes
False inflections of the seasonal air.
In that private shell the ugly tale,
The quiet of a contorted God.