The Boston Athenaeum Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: ABCDEFGHIJKLFMNOPQFL MRSBTBUVWXVBYMBZA2B2 VC2D2VVE2F2G2H2VBI2J 2K2L2BM2VN2BM2O2VGRD 2VVVP2VH2Q2HBH2XFB2R 2S2RVM2VT2U2N2BBV2VO VW2D2XX2Y2H2Z2VA3S2W BVM2VMVB3VC3D3KE3VF3 G3N2VT2M2H3WF3VI3Q2V J3OT2AK3K3TK3VDK3VK3 K3VK3BL3M3

Thou dear and well loved haunt of happy hoursA
How often in some distant galleryB
Gained by a little painful spiral stairC
Far from the halls and corridors where throngD
The crowd of casual readers have I passedE
Long peaceful hours seated on the floorF
Of some retired nook all lined with booksG
Where reverie and quiet reign supremeH
Above below on every side high shelvedI
From careless grasp of transient interestJ
Stand books we can but dimly see their charmK
Much greater that their titles are unreadL
While on a level with the dusty floorF
Others are ranged in orderly confusionM
And we must stoop in painful posture whileN
We read their names and learn their historiesO
The little gallery winds round aboutP
The middle of a most secluded roomQ
Midway between the ceiling and the floorF
A type of those high thoughts which while we readL
Hover between the earth and furthest heavenM
As fancy wills leaving the printed pageR
For books but give the theme our hearts the restS
Enriching simple words with unguessed harmonyB
And overtones of thought we only knowT
And as we sit long hours quietlyB
Reading at times and at times simply dreamingU
The very room itself becomes a friendV
The confidant of intimate hopes and fearsW
A place where are engendered pleasant thoughtsX
And possibilities before unguessedV
Come to fruition born of sympathyB
And as in some gay garden stretched uponY
A genial southern slope warmed by the sunM
The flowers give their fragrance joyouslyB
To the caressing touch of the hot noonZ
So books give up the all of what they meanA2
Only in a congenial atmosphereB2
Only when touched by reverent hands and readV
By those who love and feel as well as thinkC2
For books are more than books they are the lifeD2
The very heart and core of ages pastV
The reason why men lived and worked and diedV
The essence and quintessence of their livesE2
And we may know them better and divineF2
The inner motives whence their actions sprangG2
Far better than the men who only knewH2
Their bodily presence the soul forever hidV
From those with no ability to seeB
They wait here quietly for us to comeI2
And find them out and know them for our friendsJ2
These men who toiled and wrote only for thisK2
To leave behind such modicum of truthL2
As each perceived and each alone could tellB
Silently waiting that from time to timeM2
It may be given them to illuminateV
Dull daily facts with pristine radianceN2
For some long waited for affinityB
Who lingers yet in the deep womb of timeM2
The shifting sun pierces the young green leavesO2
Of elm trees newly coming into budV
And splashes on the floor and on the booksG
Through old high rounded windows dim with ageR
The noisy city sounds of modern lifeD2
Float softened to us across the old graveyardV
The room is filled with a warm mellow lightV
No garish colours jar on our contentV
The books upon the shelves are old and wornP2
'T was no belated effort nor attemptV
To keep abreast with old as well as newH2
That placed them here tricked in a modern guiseQ2
Easily got and held in light esteemH
Our fathers' fathers slowly and carefullyB
Gathered them one by one when they were newH2
And a delighted world received their thoughtsX
Hungrily while we but love the moreF
Because they are so old and grown so dearB2
The backs of tarnished gold the faded boardsR2
The slightly yellowing page the strange old typeS2
All speak the fashion of another ageR
The thoughts peculiar to the man who wroteV
Arrayed in garb peculiar to the timeM2
As though the idiom of a man were caughtV
Imprisoned in the idiom of a raceT2
A nothing truly yet a link that bindsU2
All ages to their own inheritanceN2
And stretching backward dim and dimmer stillB
Is lost in a remote antiquityB
Grapes do not come of thorns nor figs of thistlesV2
And even a great poet's divinest thoughtV
Is coloured by the world he knows and seesO
The little intimate things of every dayV
The trivial nothings that we think not ofW2
These go to make a part of each man's lifeD2
As much a part as do the larger thoughtsX
He takes account of Nay the little thingsX2
Of daily life it is which mold and shapeY2
And make him apt for noble deeds and trueH2
And as we read some much loved masterpieceZ2
Read it as long ago the author readV
With eyes that brimmed with tears as he sawA3
The message he believed in stamped in typeS2
Inviolable for the slow coming yearsW
We know a certain subtle sympathyB
We seem to clasp his hand across the pastV
His words become related to the timeM2
He is at one with his own glorious creedV
And all that in his world was dared and doneM
The long still fruitful hours slip awayV
Shedding their influences as they passB3
We know ourselves the richer to have satV
Upon this dusty floor and dreamed our dreamsC3
No other place to us were quite the sameD3
No other dreams so potent in their charmK
For this is ours Every twist and turnE3
Of every narrow stair is known and lovedV
Each nook and cranny is our very ownF3
The dear old sleepy place is full of spellsG3
For us by right of long inheritanceN2
The building simply bodies forth a thoughtV
Peculiarly inherent to the raceT2
And we descendants of that elder timeM2
Have learnt to love the very form in whichH3
The thought has been embodied to our yearsW
And here we feel that we are not aloneF3
We too are one with our own richest pastV
And here that veiled but ever smouldering fireI3
Of race which rarely seen yet never diesQ2
Springs up afresh and warms us with its heatV
And must they take away this treasure houseJ3
To us so full of thoughts and memoriesO
To all the world beside a dismal placeT2
Lacking in all this modern age requiresA
To tempt along the unfamiliar pathsK3
And leafy lanes of old time literaturesK3
It takes some time for moss and vines to growT
And warmly cover gaunt and chill stone wallsK3
Of stately buildings from the cold North WindV
The lichen of affection takes as longD
Or longer ere it lovingly enfoldsK3
A place which since without it were bereftV
All stript and bare shorn of its chiefest graceK3
For what to us were halls and corridorsK3
However large and fitting if we partV
With this which is our birthright if we loseK3
A sentiment profound unsoundableB
Which Time's slow ripening alone can makeL3
And man's blind foolishness so quickly marM3

Amy Lowell



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