Classic Poem

I close the book, thee in it, gentle mime,
In undisturbed seclusion hid away
'Twixt dulled morocco where shall none gainsay
Thine obvious humour of a simpler time.
So an old grandsire's chimney-corner rime,
Secure in smiles of those who love him, may
Never on cold, unkindred hearing play,
But live alway its crisp and mirthful prime.
There waits bold, pleasant wit, all undismayed,
Unconscious of this devious age of ours,
Forever alien to our sighs and tears;
And there the sweep of fair, antique brocade,
The undying perfume of forgotten flowers,
And laughter ringing faintly from old years.