The Poetry Corner


By Aldous Leonard Huxley

The eyes of the portraits on the wall Look at me, follow me, Stare incessantly: I take it their glance means nothing at all? - Clearly, oh clearly! Nothing at all ... Out in the gardens by the lake The sleeping peacocks suddenly wake; Out in the gardens, moonlit and forlorn, Each of them sounds his mournful horn: Shrill peals that waver and crack and break. What can have made the peacocks wake?