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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=360073" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>And Yet The Books</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=360073" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings, <br>That appeared once, still wet <br>As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn, <br>And, touched, coddled, began to live <br>In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up, <br>Tribes on the march, planets in motion. <br>“We are, ” they said, even as their pages <br>Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame <br>Licked away their letters. So much more durable<br>Than we are, whose frail warmth <br>Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.<br>I imagine the earth when I am no more: <br>Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant, <br>Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley. <br>Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born, <br>Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Czeslaw+Milosz">Czeslaw Milosz</a></strong></div>

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