And as we read some much-loved masterpiece,Read it as long ago the author read,With eyes that brimmed with tears as he saw The message he believed in stamped in type Inviolable for the slow-coming years;We know a certain subtle sympathy,We seem to clasp his hand across the past,His words become related to the time,He is at one with his own glorious creed And all that in his world was dared and done.
The long,still,fruitful hours slip away Shedding their influences as they pass;We know ourselves the richer to have sat Upon this dusty floor and dreamed our dreams.
No other place to us were quite the same,No other dreams so potent in their charm,For this is ours!Every twist and turn Of every narrow stair is known and loved;Each nook and cranny is our very own;
The dear,old,sleepy place is full of spells For us,by right of long inheritance.
The building simply bodies forth a thought Peculiarly inherent to the race.
And we,descendants of that elder time,Have learnt to love the very form in which The thought has been embodied to our years.
And here we feel that we are not alone,We too are one with our own richest past;And here that veiled,but ever smouldering fire Of race,which rarely seen yet never dies,Springs up afresh and warms us with its heat.
And must they take away this treasure house,To us so full of thoughts and memories;To all the world beside a dismal place Lacking in all this modern age requires To tempt along the unfamiliar paths And leafy lanes of old time literatures?
It takes some time for moss and vines to grow And warmly cover gaunt and chill stone walls Of stately buildings from the cold North Wind.