To an Elzevir Cicero

Dust-covered book, that very few men know,Even as very few men understandThe glory of an ancient, storied landIn the wild current of the ages’ flow,Have not old scholars, centuries agoCaressed you in the hollow of their hand,The while with quiet, kindly eyes they scannedYour pages, yellowed now, then white as snow?

A voice there is, cries through your every word,Of him, that after greatest glory cameDown the grey road to darkness and to tears;A voice like far seas in still valleys heard,Crying of love and death and hope and fameThat change not with the changing of the years.