Burning Leaves, November

These are folios of April,

All the library of spring,

Missals gilt and rubricated

With the frost’s illumining.

Ruthless, we destroy these treasures,

Set the torch with hand profane—

Gone, like Alexandrian vellums,

Like the books of burnt Louvain!

Yet these classics are immortal:

O collectors, have no fear,

For the publisher will issue

New editions every year.