46
Tower of Ivory
A LIBRARY OF LAW
Adjudicated quarrels of mankind,
Brown row on row!—how well these lawyers bind
Their records of dead sin,—as if they feared
The hate might spill and their long shelves be smeared
With slime of human souls,—brown row on row
Span on Philistine span, a greasy show
Of lust and lies and cruelty, dried grime
Streaked from the finger of the beggar, Time.
I wonder if the little letters there,
Black-stamped and damned eternally to bear
The records of old sin, must never long
For that fair printed world of ancient song,
Where, line on martial line, they stretch across
The vellum's edge to some irradiant boss
Of scarlet lettering, where sits a quaint
Gilt-featured and attenuated saint,
