Classic Poem

Hail , thou mightiest of all arts,
Greater than Promethean fire!
All the rest play soon their parts,
Serve their hour, and then expire.

Thou the art supreme, whereby
All the gains through ages won,
While their mortal founders die,
Pass in strength from sire to son.

Not that every century owns
Loftier stature than the last,
But that each the Book enthrones
On the lore of all the past.

Rarest gems we set with skill
Lest they glide unmarked away. —
Honor him whose generous will
Here hath set our books to-day.