We call some books immortal! Do they live? If so, believe me, Time hath made them pure. In Books, the veriest wicked rest in peace.

In you are sent The types of Truths whose life is The To Come; In you soars up the Adam from the fall; In you the Future as the Past is given-- Ev'n in our death ye bid us hail our birth;-- Unfold these pages, and behold the Heaven, Without one grave-stone left upon the Earth.

There is no Past, so long as Books shall live!

All books grow homilies by time; they are Temples, at once, and Landmarks.

The Wise (Minstrel or Sage,) out of their books are clay; But in their books, as from their graves they rise. Angels--that, side by side, upon our way, Walk with and warn us!

Hark, the world so loud, And they, the movers of the world, so still!