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Poetry

LARKINESQUE

The trees have shed their leaves at last,

Like something over — done and said.

How shall their settled piles be read

Now that fall is dead and past?

 

Perhaps like sibyl’s words that wait

On wind to spell out some despair,

When all their writing blots the air

And hints that hope may be too late?

 

Above, do quires, runed though bare,

Image the warning of a dream

Where we fall too, until they seem

To say, “Prepare. Prepare. Prepare”?

– Len Krisak

This poem appears in the May 15 print issue of NR.

NRO Staff — Members of the National Review Online editorial and operational teams are included under the umbrella “NR Staff.”

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