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Princeton -The Last Day
a poem by F. Scott Fitzgerald

The last light wanes and drifts across the land, 
The low, long land, the sunny land of spires. 
The ghosts of evening tune again their lyres 
And wander singing, in a plaintive band 
Down the long corridors of trees. Pale fires 
Echo the night from tower top to tower. 
Oh sleep that dreams and dream that never tires, 
Press from the petals of the lotus-flower 
Something of this to keep, the essence of an hour! 

No more to wait the twilight of the moon 
In this sequestrated vale of star and spire; 
For one, eternal morning of desire 
Passes to time and earthy afternoon. 
Here, Heracletus, did you build of fire 
And changing stuffs your prophecy far hurled 
Down the dead years; this midnight I aspire 
To see, mirrored among the embers, curled 
In flame, the splendor and the sadness of the world. 


Princeton -The Last Day
a poem by F. Scott Fitzgerald


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