It stands in a winding street, A quiet and restful nook, Apart from the endless beat Of the noisy heart of Trade; There ’s never a spot more cool Of a hot midsummer day By the brink of a forest pool, Or the bank of a crystal brook In the maples’ breezy shade, Than the book-stall old and gray. Here are precious gems of thought That were quarried long ago, Some in vellum bound, and wrought With letters and lines of gold; Here are curious rows of “calf,” And perchance an Elzevir; Here are countless “mos” of chaff, And a parchment folio, Like leaves that are cracked with cold, All puckered and brown and sear. In every age and clime Live the monarchs of the brain: And the lords of prose and rhyme, Years after the long last sleep Has come to the kings of earth And their names have passed away, Rule on through death and birth; And the thrones of their domain Are found where the shades are deep In the book-stall old and gray.
The Book-Stall
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