All the words I need
              Stored like seed in a pyramid
To bring back from the dead your living shade
  Lie coffined in this thing of wood you made
           Of solid pine mortised and glued
                Not long before you died.

                 Words you’ll never read
        Are good for nothing but to spread
Your greater love of craft in word and deed
A gift to make your friends’ desires succeed
        While inwardly with pain you bled
             To keep your own pride hid.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences