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Poetry


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LAMENT

The mole was dead upon the ground;
He did not move when he was poked.
His coat was sleek, his body round,
     His life revoked.

His parts seemed not to coincide:
His hands were stuck on at the wrist;
He was long-nosed and squinty-eyed,
     A humorist.

He looked too healthy to be dead;
His feet were white, his face was droll,
But he was tragic dust instead
     Of comic mole.


Contents
April 4, 2011    |     Volume LXIII, No. 6

Articles
Features
Books, Arts & Manners
  • Adam Garfinkle reviews Known and Unknown: A Memoir, by Donald Rumsfeld.
  • Ethan Gutmann reviews Tragedy in Crimson: How the Dalai Lama Conquered the World but Lost the Battle with China, by Tim Johnson.
  • John Derbyshire reviews The Social Animal: The Hidden Sources of Love, Character, and Achievement, by David Brooks.
  • Ross Douthat reviews Battle: Los Angeles.
  • Richard Brookhiser breaks down a concert.
Sections
The Long View  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  
Athwart  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  
Poetry  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  
Happy Warrior  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  
The Bent Pin  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .