Classic Poem

Here in my social solitude
I make a new Beatitude,
And Blessed are the Books, I say,
The Muses' harvest sheaves are they;
They are the vials that contain
The attar of Time's heart and brain;
The sacred lanterns that emit
The light of science, wisdom, wit;
The caskets and the shrines that hold
Thought's diadems and learning's gold;
The full-brimmed beakers whence is quaffed
Imagination's sparkling draught;
The living fountainheads where move
Deep waters of perennial love.

No book-worm blind and cold am I,
No friend to grim misanthropy.
That author best contents my mind
Who draws me nearest to mankind.
Not with a scientific greed,
For store of useful facts, I read;
Not with a pedant's pride, to know,
That I my ample lore may show;
Not with a worldling's lust of gain,
To gather gold by moil of brain;
Not with the critic's art, to scan,
And praise or blame because I can; —
The wise King Solomon, I wis,
Said ne'er a sager thing than this:
" Eat honey, thou, for it is good " ;
Sweet reading is a dainty food;
Good honey is my book to me —
My author is good honey bee;
Good honey, and because 'tis sweet,
That is the reason why I eat.

Reposing in my charmed chair,
I exorcise the demon Care;
All yesterdays are ever gone,
And never did to-morrow dawn.
Is not the present infinite?
Then here, immortal, let me sit.
Without is bleak December night,
Within is summer warmth and light.
I bend my fond, contented looks
On glimmering titles of my books,
As from the shelves they shine to me
In mute and dreamy sympathy:
And in my social solitude
I make a new Beatitude,
And, Blessed are the Books, I say,
For honey of the soul are they.