Evening in a Home Library
M
Y GUESTS are all about me in this room.
My fire burns, my lamp dispels the
gloom.
I move among the various groups and see
An august and a goodly company,
And as a hostess, marvel much that I
Could have assembled them: the bold, the shy,
The brilliant with their laughter and their quips,
The wise with wisdom falling from their lips.
I hear one speaking of a bird at dawn—
I turn to listen, it is Audubon,
Vaunting his passion for his plumaged friends.
Milton is here, his sensitive finger ends
Tapping together as he dictates well
His deathless tome of heaven and of hell.
Yonder is one—ah yes, I see—Mark Twain,
He of the crooked grin, the tousled mane;
And there young Keats stands close beside the fire,
His dark eyes smoldering with some fierce desire.
Charles Lamb is stirring at the dimming log,
Striving to rid his darkened mind of fog.
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