The final page is turned, the end is reached;
But pages are not days, books are not lives.
Turn back the pages, like the god beseeched
To give back life when Judgment Day arrives.
For we may yet return to well-loved lines,
Though not to moments past, to live old bliss;
For Poesy each living word enshrines,
Protected from its bane—Forgetfulness.
So we, who in our mortal compass dwell,
And such protection from our own bane lack,
May pause in Poesy’s eternal spell
Each time we stop, and turn the pages back.
Copyright © Karl
Westmann, all rights reserved