The Library by Alice Gore-Jones

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Set in the mellow silence of the room
   Great carven bookshelves laden with grave books,
Dim faded rugs, spoils of an ancient loom,
   Deep cushioned chairs, and dreamy inglenooks.

The atmosphere is fragrant with a scent
   Where bowls of roses spill their rich perfume.
While to the whole austerity is lent
   By a white statue shining through the gloom.
A garden slumbers where the sunlight gleams,
   A bee is humming on the drowsy air:
This is the home of peace -- and yet there seems
   A subtle restless stirring everywhere.

High carven book-shelves laden with grave works
   Of stern philosophy and staid desire:
Beneath some cover young Adventure lurks;
   Romance is smiling with her lips of fire.

The sunlight weaves strange patterns on the floor.
   The air grows tremulous with muffled strife.
If I but turned a leaf, through its white door
   A thousand shining ghosts would leap to life.

First published in The Bulletin, 1 January 1920

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on September 15, 2012 1:26 PM.

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