1 min read
Слушать(AI)The End Of The Library
When the
Gave out, we
Burning the books, one by one;
First the
Of
And then the Walter Scott.
They gave a lot of warmth.
Toward the end,
February,
Consumed the
Tragedians and Baudelaire,
Proust,
Robert
And the Po-Chu-i.
Thickened on the sills.
More for the sake of the cat,
We said, than for ourselves,
Who huddled, shivering,
Against the
All winter long.
Weldon Kees
Harry Weldon Kees (February 24, 1914 – disappeared July 18, 1955) was an American poet, painter, literary critic, novelist, playwright, jazz pia
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
Girl At Midnight
Then walk the floor, or twist upon your bed While bullets, cold and blind, rush backward from the target’s eye, And say, “I will not dream that dream again I will not dream Of long-spent whispers vanishing down corridors That turn throug...
Problems Of A Journalist
“I want to get away somewhere and re-read Proust,” Said an editor of Fortune to a man on Time But the fire roared and died, the phoenix quacked like a goose, And all roads to the country fray like shawls Outside the dusk of suburbs ...
Variations on a Theme by Joyce
The war is in words and the wood is the That turns beneath our rootless feet;the vines that reach, alive and snarled, Across the path where the sand is swirled, Twist in the night
Round
Wondrous life cried Marvell at Appleton House Renan admired Jesus Christ wholeheartedly But here dried ferns keep falling to the floor,
