Great palaces they fill, the shapes that, myriad page on page,
Hold safe for us and tangible our spirits' heritage.

But vaster far the treasuries elysian that contain
The bodiless throng of those that craved a bodily guise in vain.

The harvest of humanity's dumb eloquence is there,
Clear-voiced achievements that on earth but voiceless yearnings were:

The books conceived but never born, dream-writ but never paged,
Awakened beings in no flesh of lines and letters caged;

The words that great beginners left unspoken, dying young,
That laureled elders meant to sing better than they had sung,

And those, the numberless, for which no kindred testified,
Imagined children of a hope whose wings were never tried. . . .

O restless wights who cannot put a fruitful effort through,
O minds untrained and hands unskilled that long but cannot do,

And ye who saw your vision die because ye starved for bread,
Or starved for strength or time or chance, have faith, be comforted,

For daily grow the heavenly stores to meet the radiant look
Of reborn souls who suddenly find each his new-born book.

Each reads his own—and Heaven begins; then in the peace divine
Of endless years shall each, praise God, have time for yours and mine!