How classic; These that last Sowed long past, Grow yet with us; Tendrils wide and long Striking deeper roots. Sure to cultivate feeling; In novel pleasures, Tired musings Flash and go, Leaving more dry Of mouth then by Sentiments gushed To pall, in which; Modern time thirsts Yet shelters from the waterfall, Of yesterday’s treasures; Brilliant crystals pure- Drops caressing souls Like swarming baby-fingers, Searching, moist and warm When born, For lips, wont to kiss Dramatic beauty, of which Is hoped that none will miss. The elect will persevere; They will go on back, And knock three times at the rear. If they have the password, They’re admitted to the place, Welcomed to a shelf within the case. Our hearts, Especially here will be found, Our friends so richly bound; There’s William Blake And Thomas Browne! Right next to Dr. Donne And that shy old chap, Anon! Here together, the suppressed Join with the confessed, On tables in rows buttressed, The little with the tall, Over every foot of wall, And in drifted heaps where thrown. The common and unknown. Here in this atmosphere, Sweeter than spring flowers, Lovelier than forests And shining seas, Pregnant with comfortable wisdom And lively fancy, I shall squeeze out, Drop by drop, The happy elixir of my books.