BOOKS.
In books I find companionship, they areMy household gods, and naught shall wholly barTheir voices from me; from their precious pagesI quaff the immortality of ages.They are the spirits of the dead, not dumb,From ancient tombs and monuments they comeTo hold communion with the living; they,While nations perish and the world grows gray,Their regal power and pristine beauty keep,Despite the havoc, and inglorious sleepOf centuries that bore a crimson hue,—Despite the flames which they have travelled through,Unscathed they hold their sceptres, meek they bearThese royal dignities;—like light and airThey enter, silver-shod, the humblest door,And breathe their benedictions on the poor.Ye avatars, true saviours of the world,Round whom the hopes of wisest souls are curled,Be mine through life, in pain, or pleasure, mine!If near me still your pleasant faces shineThe skies may lower—upon my thorny pathThe heavens may pour their cataracts of wrath,I need not falter, need not hold my breath,Nor tremble at the menaces of Death.
In books I find companionship, they areMy household gods, and naught shall wholly barTheir voices from me; from their precious pagesI quaff the immortality of ages.They are the spirits of the dead, not dumb,From ancient tombs and monuments they comeTo hold communion with the living; they,While nations perish and the world grows gray,Their regal power and pristine beauty keep,Despite the havoc, and inglorious sleepOf centuries that bore a crimson hue,—Despite the flames which they have travelled through,Unscathed they hold their sceptres, meek they bearThese royal dignities;—like light and airThey enter, silver-shod, the humblest door,And breathe their benedictions on the poor.Ye avatars, true saviours of the world,Round whom the hopes of wisest souls are curled,Be mine through life, in pain, or pleasure, mine!If near me still your pleasant faces shineThe skies may lower—upon my thorny pathThe heavens may pour their cataracts of wrath,I need not falter, need not hold my breath,Nor tremble at the menaces of Death.
In books I find companionship, they areMy household gods, and naught shall wholly barTheir voices from me; from their precious pagesI quaff the immortality of ages.They are the spirits of the dead, not dumb,From ancient tombs and monuments they comeTo hold communion with the living; they,While nations perish and the world grows gray,Their regal power and pristine beauty keep,Despite the havoc, and inglorious sleepOf centuries that bore a crimson hue,—Despite the flames which they have travelled through,Unscathed they hold their sceptres, meek they bearThese royal dignities;—like light and airThey enter, silver-shod, the humblest door,And breathe their benedictions on the poor.Ye avatars, true saviours of the world,Round whom the hopes of wisest souls are curled,Be mine through life, in pain, or pleasure, mine!If near me still your pleasant faces shineThe skies may lower—upon my thorny pathThe heavens may pour their cataracts of wrath,I need not falter, need not hold my breath,Nor tremble at the menaces of Death.