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There is no wrath in the stars,

They do not rage in the sky;

I look from the evil wood

And find myself wondering why.

Why do they not scream out

And grapple star against star,

Seeking for blood in the wood,

As all things round me are?

They do not glare like the sky

Or flash like the deeps of the wood;

But they shine softly on

In their sacred solitude.