It’s a pale fire, and then paler still
Never to consume more intimate history
Never more to creep or twist or twirl through logs
Wond’ring if a boy would ever, ever meet this girl
Who would think of her—yes, the very lift of my very nose?
Or my voice’s cadence—or my toes
Or with what pleasure I sometimes can drink a tea
Oh, would ever there be a he who would so think of me?
These thoughts and more dear Uncle wrote in this book
While we, from other shelves books took
And we read those or abandoned them or sometimes lent
A tome or two which destiny sent
To us, to pour into our holes
Yearning to be filled; so, sang our souls.
When all along Pale Fire was there.
Pale Fire. To be read, eaten, but never digested.
Tell me, God, or just a fellow human:
Is it for this cup of tea I live?
Or is it just to read this verse which our Uncle did give?
Oh, there is pleasure teeming in the lines of Pale Fire –
The book I have been dreaming.