Nostalgia and Complaint of the Grandparents

Les morts C’est sous terre; Ça n’en sort Guère. LAFORGUE Our diaries squatted, toad-like, On dark closet ledges. Forget-me-not and thistle Decalcomaned the pages. But where, where are they now, All the sad squalors Of those between-wars parlors?— Cut flowers; and the sunlight spilt like soda On torporous rugs; the photo Albums all outspread ... The dead Don’t get around much anymore.