And Kipling wipes the tear winks from my eye.
There, funeral of one, comes Mr. Poe
With Melville dressed in white, his face all snow.
Poe grips my hand in silence, does not say
“Farewell” or “Nevermore” but glides away.
While Oscar last of all, now inside sits
To pack and then repack his case of wits,
“This is a special time,” he says, “let’s try
To say farewells as if we really meant good-bye.”
My chin is chucked by Twain, who like the sun
All laughing, buffs my cheek, “God bless you, son.”
And there they stroll along the station strand,
With Melville slow and ’lorn and lost on land.
What is this place? a bookshop by the sea?
O, yes! How grand! That fires a joy in me!
They are not lost or dead, for here, next day,
Some other child will travel them away,
On night train journeyings that only slow
At towns where other authors thrive and go
And bark all night and all the glad things know.
Why is this so? Because I say it’s so.
My friends are gone, I stand a moment more,
To see their footprints sift along the shore,
I wave at shadows, climb aboard my train.
I weep because their likes won’t come again.
But this sure thing I know by sounding sea:
Their deaths diminish, words replenish me.
For traveling down the shore in lonely car,
I open wide their books and there they are!