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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2005-10-27 | [Aestu textŭ lipseashti s-hibâ dghivâsitŭ tu romana] | Ânyrâpsitŭ tu bibliotecâ di Ionescu Bogdan
When life burns low as the fire in the grate
And all the evening's books are read, I sit alone, save for the dead And the lovers I have grown to hate. But all at once the narrow gloom Of hatred and despair expands In tenderness: thought stretches hands To welcome to the midnight room Another presence: - a memory Of how last year in the sunlit field, Laughing, you suddenly revealed Beauty in immortality. For so it is; a gesture strips Life bare of all its make-believe. All unprepared we may receive Our casual apocalypse. Sheer beauty, then you seemed to stir Unbodied soul; soul sleeps to-night, And love comes, dimming spirit's sight, When body plays interpreter.
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