Oh! Bury me in books when I am dead,
Fair quarto leaves of ivory and gold,
And silk octavos, bound in brown and red,
That tales of love and chivalry unfold.
Heap me in volumes of fine vellum wrought,
Creamed with the close content of silent speech;
Wrap me in sapphire tapestries of thought
From some old epic out of common reach.
I would my shroud were verse-embroidered too—-
Your verse for preference—in starry stitch,
And powdered o’er with rhymes that poets woo,
Breathing dream-lyrics in moon-measures rich.
Night holds me with a horror of the grave
That knows not poetry, nor song, nor you;
Nor leaves of love that down the ages weave
Romance and fire in burnished cloths of blue.
Oh, bury me in books, and I’ll not mind
The cold, slow worms that coil around my head;
Since my lone soul may turn the page and find
The lines you wrote to me, when I am dead.
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Comments
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What a lovely thought, a true appreciation for poetry and the written word. Im not sure I agree with the comment below about wanting to be remembered in books, although its an interesting interpretation that is worth pondering..
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I don't think Zora meant to say she loved books, though she must have, I think she wanted to be written of. Buried in books, but figuratively. She wanted to have her story accounted for. In the last few lines she says
"Oh, bury me in books, and I’ll not mind
The cold, slow worms that coil around my head;
Since my lone soul may turn the page and find
The lines you wrote to me, when I am dead."
Meaning, I wouldn't mind it if you remembered me once in awhile, after all who wants to be forgotten? I think her writing sort of immortalized her. I could be completely off point but I honestly believe she was thinking to say more than her love of lit. -
The author shows her love of books quite well here, and drives her point in with a hammer. She even wants to be buried in books... somewhat sad, although her personality shines through this like the gold quarto leaves she writes of.
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