Literature

Should lanterns shine, the holy face, Caught in an octagon of unaccustomed light, Would wither up, and any boy of love. Look twice before he fell from grace. The features in their private

They are all gone away, The House is shut and still, There is nothing more to say. Through broken walls and gray. The winds blow bleak and shrill; They are all gone away.

Night fell one year ago, like this. He had been writing steadily. Among these dusky walls of books, How bright he looked, intense as flame! Suddenly he paused, The firelight in his hair, And said, “The time has come to go” I took his hand; We watched the logs burn out;