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Strindberg, August, 1849-1912

"Historical Miniatures"

Now I talk no
more." He kept his Bible so closely clasped to his breast as though
that were the only thing he had to hold fast before the end.
So Stromboli retreated in the gloom,
Flinging red flame and molten lava high,
A flaring portent: We, who passed it by,
Carry that lurid memory to the tomb;
Yet round its crater living flowers bloom,
The vine, fig, olive grow and fructify,
Over it laughs the blue Sicilian sky,
A paradise upon the verge of doom.
As fiery as that red volcanic blast,
Through years he wrestled with his unseen Foe,
Wailing in pain "I will not let Thee go
Unless Thou bless me who have held Thee fast,"--
And thus, like Jacob, from his overthrow,
He rose a cripple, but a prince at last_.


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