And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings
That appeared once still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in Autumn
And, touched, coddled, begin to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up
Tribes on the march, planets in motion
"We are" they said, even as their pages
were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters, so much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes
I imagine the earth when I am no more
Nothing happens, no loss, its still a strange pageant
Womens' dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
Edward Young
(???? - c18)
Unlearned men of books assume the care
As Eunuchs are the guardians of the Fair