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SONNET

IN THE LIBRARY.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

GAZING upon these volumes, row on row,

The garnered wisdom of a bygone age,

And rising upon these, the glowing page

Of those whose rising star doth not yet bow

To the chill hand of age, which, here below,

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Nips the fresh flowers of poet and of sage,

I seem like a poor birdling in a cage

Watching a lovely rose that wide doth blow,

And spreads its leaves to heaven, pure and still:

And we but smell its sweets, pass heedless by,

Or, haply, nestling like some honey-bee

Within its inmost breast, we drink our fill,

But soon, brain-sick, we fall away and die,

Alas! alas! that death so soon should be.

B. W. W.

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