William Douw Schuyler-Lighthall (1857–1954)

PICKEN of Beaver Hall, what modest hand,

Or thoughtless, wrote thy sign? ’Bookseller’ thou,

Forsooth! Though goodly word it be, and graced

By learning, honour, men of fair repute.

Not this the operation of thy days,

No barter thought, no views of bank account,

Silver and bills, profit, advertisement;

Not this thy avocation—but to lead

The novice soul along the temple path

To the hid shrine, the thirsty heart to find

Some quenching draft, the world’s delights to lift

Before the unthinking. Gentle Levite thou

Of Art and Wisdom and Humanity

And the inclusive ONE. To thee we fare

To meet the souls of poets, and converse

With sages, known or called from quarters strange

By thy skilled wand. That unpretentious door

Leads where wise Plato visits still the earth,

And Shakespeare calls his airy host to view:

Ah, what a world is there, delectable,

Serene, of perfect grace, the land of Thought!

There in their kingly ranks the Masters walk

By crocus-edged Cephisus’ sleepless stream

Along the cypress paths. There Socrates,

Virgil and Zarathustra, Francis mild,

Memline and Angelo and Angelico,

The bard of Faust and he of Paradise—

Heroes and saints innumerable appear,

While in their converse he who will takes part

And thou art friend and guide. Assuredly

’Tis blessed to be thus amid a world

Mad after fruit of ashes, running fast

Because the rest are running, blind and deaf

And needing quiet voices like to thine.