A ROUND the narrow circuit of the room
Breast-high the books I love range file on file;
And when, day-weary, I would rest awhile,
As once again slow falls the gathering gloom
Upon the world, I love to pass my hand
Along their serried ranks, and silent stand
In breathless heark'ning to their silent speech.
With rev'rent hand I touch the back of each
Of these my books. How much of their dear selves —
The hand that held the pen, the brain that wrought
The subtle fancies on these pages caught —
Have men immortal left upon my shelves!

And then sometimes a sudden chill doth strike
My heart with very horror, and I shrink
Away from their dull touch, shudd'ring to think
How much of human life that, vampire-like,
These books have sucked beneath their leathern wings,
How brains have broken and frail bodies bent
To feed with human blood these bloodless things.
In this thin book of poesy is pent
A beautiful young life; — imperial Rome
Holds what was mortal of it. Then I see,
All withered at the top, a noble tree
Here in the scathing scorn of this dark tome.
By this long line of books that mutely stands
A master-mind was wrecked, so that in years
He sat a poor old man in doting tears,
Because his dogs in pity licked his hands.

But then again there comes a rushing thought,
And to my living books my arms I raise
In loving fellowship of life and breath,
And, like poor Southey when his brain was naught
Save a pale glimmering light of other days,
I touch them tenderly. My spirit saith:
" Who gave their lives for these can know no death.
For I have walked with them in mortal guise
Through woodland ways and swarming city streets;
Yea, have I met the gaze of Shelley's eyes,
And in " Hyperion" kissed the lips of Keats. "