Stacks

A Poem

Oh down, oh down, this pounding sound
Around a world of rolling stones
And frozen words in paper bound
Like Prometheus, all alone,
Against his doom, martyred for fire,
Eternally a laughingstock,
A sacrifice, a tortured god,
Embrace the unfortunate rock.

Ah word, ah word, what wond’ring wraith
With hands of ink and fingers light
Has touched these scraps with poetry?
Assuredly some airy sprite
who with enchanted breath
And aimless running feet
Has brushed along these dusty shelves
And fused its magic in their leaves.

Oh haste! Oh haste! To wondrous place!
And plant thy toes midst scribbled tow’rs—
Like Babel—muter, humbler space
Whose more and better power
Shall raise up men of brighter might
Whose joy is sharper yet than swords,
With rightly ordered hearts and minds
To follow faster yet their Lord.

PIcture of a section of Tyndale Library’s 700s, taken by the author.