Love can be found among the strife,
But there is little in it;
Compared with all the length of life,
It lasts about a minute.
The other dreary seven-eighths
Of anybody’s span
Is lived immersed in all the hates
That set apart the Man.
It is his brain, and not his soul
That puts him on a shelf
A bit above a Simian role–
His “love” is for- -himself.
by Ray Romine Sunday, September 2, 1945
