Ruins Of A Great House - Poem by Derek Walcott

though our longest sun sets at right declensions and makes but winter arches, it cannot be long before we lie down in darkness, and have our light in ashes. . . Browne, Urn Burial Stones only, the disjecta membra of this Great House, Whose moth-like girls are mixed with candledust, Remain to file the lizard’s dragonish claws. The mouths of those gate cherubs shriek with stain; Axle and coach…
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