. Lyrics from a library . IN AN ALCOVE Once more am I at middle day In tranquil twilight hid away, Where not a sound disturbs the sense Of book-encompassed indolence. Pale, grave-eyed Science does not brood Above this sunless solitude, Nor does Romances ardent face With antique glamour fill the place; A fairer form the vision views, The gracious presence of the Muse. Small meed of gold she offers those Who leave the wider ways of Prose To follow where her foot-fall leads Along the asphodelian meads, Nor is she prodigal to lay Upon the brow the wreathed bay: Yet are her votaries content, Aye, m
. Lyrics from a library . IN AN ALCOVE Once more am I at middle day In tranquil twilight hid away, Where not a sound disturbs the sense Of book-encompassed indolence. Pale, grave-eyed Science does not brood Above this sunless solitude, Nor does Romances ardent face With antique glamour fill the place; A fairer form the vision views, The gracious presence of the Muse. Small meed of gold she offers those Who leave the wider ways of Prose To follow where her foot-fall leads Along the asphodelian meads, Nor is she prodigal to lay Upon the brow the wreathed bay: Yet are her votaries content, Aye, more, their lot seems opulent, If on them be by her conferred Some transient, dream-evoking word! It may be but a whisper low, Yet straightway are the skies aglow; It may be but the lightest breath, And yet how it illumineth! And though beyond all heart-appeal Her lips a cruel silence seal, A holier influence fills the air Through her benignant presence there; Ah, how would earth and heaven unroll Could one but know her ly
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