Dear books! and each the living soul,
Our hearts aver, of men unseen,
Whose power to strengthen, charm, control,
Surmounts all earth’s green miles between.
For us at least the artists show
Apart from fret of work-day jars:
We know them but as friends may know,
Or they are known beyond the stars.
Ther mirth, their grief, their soul’s desire,
When twilight murmuring of streams,
Or skies far touched by sunset fire,
Exalt them to pure worlds of dreams;
Their love of good; their rage at wrong;
Their hours when struggling thought makes way;
Their hours when fancy drifts to song
Lightly and glad as bird-trills may;
All these are truths. And if as true
More graceless scrutiny that reads,
“These fruits amid strange husking grew;”
“These lilies blossomed amongst weeds;”
Here no despoiling doubts shall blow,
No fret of feud, of work-day jars.
We know them but as friends may know,
Or they are known beyond the stars.