IN my friend's library I sit alone, Hemmed in by books. The dead and living there, Shrined in a thousand volumes rich and rare, Tower in long rows, with names to me unknown. A dim half-curtained light o'er all is thrown. A shadowed Dante looks with stony stare Out from his dusky niche. The very air Seems hushed before some intellectual throne. What ranks of grand philosophers, what choice And gay romancers, what historians sage, What wits, what poets, on those crowded shelves! All dumb forever, till the mind gives voice To each dead letter of each senseless page, And adds a soul they own not of themselves. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPRING ON BROADWAY by LOUIS UNTERMEYER TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN: THE THIRD DAY: SCANDERBERG by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW BELLS FOR JOHN WHITESIDE'S DAUGHTER by JOHN CROWE RANSOM FOREIGN CHILDREN by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON |