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330 Some ancient smoldering altar of the race.

With hard-won fuel we feed the little fire,

Shielding its hesitant flame against the blast—

We, heritors of an unfulfilled desire—

That it burn brighter than in the somber past.

At midnight, by the ghostly flame, alone,

We pray,—beside that altar's blood-drenched stone.

LOVE, GIVE ME THE FEEL OF TO-MORROW

BY RALPH CHEYNEY