A day closes in obedience to the clock,
To weary yawns, more yawns, and wonky joints
Words read are unremembered at this hour,
And pages lie open, idle, unseen
The windowpanes reflect only this room
And its books, neither neat nor catalogued,
Slovenly ranks of civilization,
Askew, aslant, but yet on duty still;
They stand, and in defiance face the dark:
Poetry, novels, histories, and art,
Biographies and essays, music, too –
Even in their silence they seem to say
Slink off, dark Chaos, for here we stand and stay
