I hear it
occurred to them to call upon the Muses of music and war.
Said the pot
of stew surveying the room, “Gabriel Grub was carried away.
He used to
stop in every night before.”
A garbled
word in shaky Cyrillic,
Symbol of an
empire fallen, and van Winkle, awake,
Trembling at
such a thing.
They seemed rather
to think that the old poet-kings were dead, and that gave them license.
Now Samuel,
slumping through the halls, contents himself with memories of oils unspilled,
Unaware that
what he thinks is nonsense.
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