Ernest

I may be in Paris. I may just have spent a happy few moments in Les deux Magots. I may have been drinking champagne. Hemingway was most certainly here - many times. He got around.


Killed Paive--July 8--1918

Desire and
All the sweet pulsing aches
And gentle hurtings
That were you,
Are gone into the sullen dark.
Now in the night you come unsmiling
To lie with me
A dull, cold, rigid bayonet
On my hot-swollen, throbbing soul.

Ernest Hemingway


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