"Aqui esta encerrada el alma licenciado Pedro Garcias." <br /> <br />Dear books! and each the living soul, <br /> Our hearts aver, of men unseen, <br />Whose power to strengthen, charm, control, <br /> Surmounts all earth's green miles between. <br /> <br />For us at least the artists show <br /> Apart from fret of work-day jars: <br />We know them but as friends may know, <br /> Or they are known beyond the stars. <br /> <br />Their mirth, their grief, their soul's desire, <br /> When twilight murmuring of streams, <br />Or skies far touched by sunset fire, <br /> Exalt them to pure worlds of dreams; <br /> <br />Their love of good; their rage at wrong; <br /> Their hours when struggling thought makes way; <br />Their hours when fancy drifts to song <br /> Lightly and glad as bird-trills may; <br /> <br />All these are truths. And if as true <br /> More graceless scrutiny that reads, <br />"These fruits amid strange husking grew;" <br /> "These lilies blossomed amongst weeds;" <br /> <br />Here no despoiling doubts shall blow, <br /> No fret of feud, of work-day jars. <br />We know them but as friends may know, <br /> Or they are known beyond the stars.<br /><br />Mary Colborne-Veel<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/distant-authors/
