Bright Harvest by Grace Noll Crowell - HTML preview

Dyspeptic Carlyle, suffering from his food,

Is in a brittle and sardonic mood;

Poor Thomas Wolfe’s posthumous voice cries out

His exultation, bitterness and doubt

Johnson and Boswell yonder sip their tea,

Discoursing in the closest intimacy . . .

The hour grows late, the good nights must be said

To all my guests, the living and the dead.

I loathe to leave the group—I quit my chair—

I tiptoe from the room and climb the stair,

Trusting them to dim the fire, the light,

And calling back to them a soft “Good night.”

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