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middle of a most secluded room； Midway between the ceiling and the
floor。 A type of those high thoughts； which while we read Hover between
the earth and furthest heaven As fancy wills； leaving the printed page； For
books but give the theme； our hearts the rest； Enriching simple words with
unguessed harmony And overtones of thought we only know。 And as we
sit long hours quietly； Reading at times； and at times simply dreaming； The
very room itself becomes a friend； The confidant of intimate hopes and
fears； A place where are engendered pleasant thoughts； And possibilities
before unguessed Come to fruition born of sympathy。 And as in some gay
garden stretched upon A genial southern slope； warmed by the sun； The
flowers give their fragrance joyously To the caressing touch of the hot
noon； So books give up the all of what they mean Only in a congenial
atmosphere； Only when touched by reverent hands； and read By those who
love and feel as well as think。 For books are more than books； they are the
life； The very heart and core of ages past； The reason why men lived； and
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worked； and died； The essence and quintessence of their lives。 And we
may know them better； and divine The inner motives whence their actions
sprang； Far better than the men who only knew Their bodily presence； the
soul forever hid From those with no ability to see。 They wait here quietly
for us to come And find them out； and know them for our friends； These
men who toiled and wrote only for this； To leave behind such modicum of
truth As each perceived and each alone could tell。 Silently waiting that
from time to time It may be given them to illuminate Dull daily facts with
pristine radiance For some long…waited…for affinity Who lingers yet in the
deep womb of time。 The shifting sun pierces the young green leaves Of
elm trees； newly coming into bud； And splashes on the floor and on the
books Through old； high； rounded windows； dim with age。 The noisy city…
sounds of modern life Float softened to us across the old graveyard。 The
room is filled with a warm； mellow light； No garish colours jar on our
content； The books upon the shelves are old and worn。 'T was no belated
effort nor attempt To keep abreast with old as well as new That placed
them here； tricked in a modern guise； Easily got； and held in light esteem。
Our fathers' fathers； slowly and carefully Gathered them； one by one；
when they were new And a delighted world received their thoughts
Hungrily； while we but love the more； Because they are so old and grown
so dear！ The backs of tarnished gold； the faded boards； The slightly
yellowing page； the strange old type； All speak the fashion of another age；
The thoughts peculiar to the man who wrote Arrayed in garb peculiar to
the time； As though the idiom of a man were caught Imprisoned in the
idiom of a race。 A nothing truly； yet a link that binds All ages to their own
inheritance； And stretching backward； dim and dimmer still； Is lost in a
remote antiquity。 Grapes do not come of thorns nor figs of thistles； And
even a great poet's divinest thought Is coloured by the world he knows and
sees。 The little intimate things of every day； The trivial nothings that we
think not of； These go to make a part of each man's life； As much a part as
do the larger thoughts He takes account of。 Nay； the little things Of daily
life it is which mold； and shape； And make him apt for noble deeds and
true。 And as we read some much…loved masterpiece； Read it as long ago
the author read； With eyes that brimmed with tears as he saw The message
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A Dome of Many…Coloured Glass
he believed in stamped in type Inviolable for the slow…coming years； We
know a certain subtle sympathy； We seem to clasp his hand across the past；
His words become related to the time； He is at one with his own glorious
creed And all that in his world was dared and done。 The long； still； fruitful
hours slip away Shedding their influences as they pass； We know
ourselves the richer to have sat Upon this dusty floor and dreamed our
dreams。 No other place to us were quite the same； No other dreams so
potent in their charm； For this is ours！ Every twist and turn Of every
narrow stair is known and loved； Each nook and cranny is our very own；
The dear； old； sleepy place is full of spells For us； by right of long
inheritance。 The building simply bodies forth a thought Peculiarly inherent
to the race。 And we； descendants of that elder time； Have learnt to love the
very form in which The thought has been embodied to our years。 And here
we feel that we are not alone； We too are one with our own richest past；
And here that veiled； but ever smouldering fire Of race； which rarely seen
yet never dies； Springs up afresh and warms us with its heat。 And must
they take away this treasure house； To us so full of thoughts and memories；
To all the world beside a dismal place Lacking in all this modern age
requires To tempt along the unfamiliar paths And leafy lanes of old time
literatures？ It takes some time for moss and vines to grow And warmly
cover gaunt and chill stone walls Of stately buildings from the cold North
Wind。 The lichen of affection takes as long； Or longer； ere it lovingly
enfolds A place which since without it were bereft； All stript and bare；
shorn of its chiefest grace。 For what to us were halls and corridors
However large and fitting； if we part With this which is our birthright； if
we lose A sentiment profound； unsoundable； Which Time's slow ripening
alone can make； And man's blind foolishness so quickly mar。
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Verses for Children
Sea Shell
Sea Shell； Sea Shell； Sing me a song； O Please！ A song of ships； and
sailor men； And parrots； and tropical trees；
Of islands lost in the Spanish Main Which no man ever may find again；
Of fishes and corals under the waves； And seahorses stabled in great green
caves。
Sea Shell； Sea Shell； Sing of the th