I half-expect Gitane-smoking men
To flow through the door,
Exclaiming: “the world is here
And demands exultation!
O celebrate, you daughters of justice!
O weep, you children of suspicion!
The ivy has freed the streetlamps.
Statues guard ancient typewriters:
Rejoice in their observances.
Stand back, you fathers of tyranny.
Here are books in all languages,
Lip to lip, sighing together.
O breathe, you framed portraits —
Yours is the burden of history
And the travails of reflection.”
