A Poet of the Shelves

He dwells within the city's heart,
But never sees the sun nor moon,
Yet he, a lord of rhythmic art,
Has fashioned songs of night and noon.

He dwells where city lamp-lights gleam,
But scorns to pass the crowded way;
Yet he spins sonnets by the ream
Beatifying toiling clay.

He dwells within the city's gates,
Yet from the tumult ever flees,
But from old books and antique plates,
He sings of life's complexities!
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