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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=358641" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The House Of Dust: Part 03: 08: Coffins: Interlude</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower<br>Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour:<br>At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . .<br>The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones.<br>We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We are like music, each voice of it pursuing<br>A golden separate dream, remote, persistent,<br>Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair.<br>What do you whisper, brother? What do you tell me? . . .<br>We pass each other, are lost, and do not care.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing,<br>Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him;<br>One drifts slowly down from a waking dream.<br>One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . .<br>Upward and downward, past him there, we stream.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly.<br>Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret.<br>A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth.<br>He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils:<br>A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Death, from street to alley, from door to window,<br>Cries out his news,&mdash;of unplumbed worlds approaching,<br>Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower.<br>But why comes death,&mdash;he asks,&mdash;in a world so perfect?<br>Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled,<br>A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes<br>Down jangled streets, and dies.<br>The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely,<br>Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways;<br>Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways;<br>From freezing rooms as bare as rock.<br>The curtains are closed across deserted windows.<br>Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight;<br>Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly;<br>Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone;<br>Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered;<br>Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror,<br>And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not;<br>Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,&mdash;<br>They are blown away like windflung chords of music,<br>They drift away; the sudden music has died.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly<br>And sees the shadow of death in many faces,<br>And thinks the world is strange.<br>He desires immortal music and spring forever,<br>And beauty that knows no change.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Conrad+Potter+Aiken">Conrad Potter Aiken</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=358641" data-title="The House Of Dust: Part 03: 08: Coffins: Interlude de Conrad Potter Aiken" data-description="Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower
Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour:
At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . .
The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones.
We close our coats, and hurry, and search ..."></div>
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