In a dim nook beneath the street Where Pine and noisy Nassau meet, This little book of song I found In scarred morocco quaintly bound. Each musty and bemildewed leaf Bespeaks long years of grime and grief; Long years,—for on the title page A dim date tells the volume's age. Ah, who was he, the bard that sung In that dead century's stately tongue In those envanished days of yore?— An empty name—I know no more! Yet as I read will fancy form A face whose glow is fresh and warm, A frank, clear eye wherein I view A nature open, genial, true. Mayhap he dreamed of fame, but fate Has barred to him that temple's gate; He loved,—was loved,—for one divines An answered passion in his lines; He died, ah, yes, he died, but when He ceased to walk the ways of men, Or where his clay with mother clay Commingles sweetly, who can say! In pity will I give his book A not too lonely study nook, Where kindly gleams of light may play Across it of a wintry day; And I will take it down sometimes To con the prim and polished rhymes.— Will thus, when the grey years have fled, Some book of mine be housed and read? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN A RAILROAD STATION by SARA TEASDALE BALLAD by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY PRAYER OF COLUMBUS by WALT WHITMAN THE LEGEND OF ARA-COELI by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH NORTHERN EARTH MOOD by WILLIAM HERVEY ALLEN JR. |