Not only will I close the door
Upon you and your ilk,
But on your century, and more,
To reel the time, like silk.
I will take residence, to bide
Within an age long past;
Yours is tomorrow—we divide,
And so the die is cast.
With authors whom I read of yore,
There I will make my home,
And never open up that door
Through which you never come.
The Russians will become my friends,
Dear sacred novelists,
And I bide there till my time ends,
Although my heart resists:
Because I close the door on hope
Through which you never strode,
But harrowed, hardened, I may cope
Upon that lonely road.
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