Take me to some still abode,
Underneath some woody hill;
By some timber-skirted road,
By some willow-shaded rill;
Where along the rocky brook
Flying echoes sweetly sound,
And the hoarsely-croaking rook
Builds upon the trees around.
Take me to some lofty room
Lighted from the western sky,
Where no glare dispels the gloom
Till the golden eve is nigh,
Where the works of searching thought,
Chosen books, may still impart
What the wise of old have taught,
What has tried the meek of heart.
Books in long-dead tongues, that stirred
Living hearts in other climes;
Telling to my eyes, unheard,
Glorious deeds of olden times.
Books that purify the thought,
Spirits of the learned dead,
Teachers of the little taught,
Comforters when friends are fled.