| |
| 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 | 5 |
| 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. | 10 |
| |
| 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,” | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| |
| 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 | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
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