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162 | Light within the Shade Shma Yisroel In paupers’ filthy sheets I crept from land to land, restlessly roving, my full heart, childlike, wailed and wept, alone among the glad, sat grieving. What resting place will yet accept this weary soul?—I cried out, heaving: Shma Yisroel! Servants obeyed me; wife, truth-souled, sat with me on a silken cushion to count my oxen and my gold; I grew in strength and erudition and, giving alms, in joy I told my inner soul in exultation: Shma Yisroel! And now, whatever there may come, Great fame, or money, or affliction; let them cast stones at me, or doom for me a deathbed and destruction; yet still I’ll cry out from the tomb love’s endless words of recollection: Shma Yisroel! 1936 ...

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