PRINCETON -- THE LAST DAY

by: F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940)

      HE 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" is reprinted from the Nassau Literary Magazine, June 1917.

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