Classic Poem

The gold, old Master Binder, thou didst chase
On the book's back and in the edge's grain,
Despite the irons pushed with free-hand main,
In vivid, brilliant hue no more we trace.

The figures which so deftly interlace
Grow daily on the fine, white skin less plain;
And scarce we see the ivy thou didst train
To wind in beauty o'er the cover's space.

But this translucent, supple ivory,
Marguerite, Marie — Diane, it e'en may be,
With loving fingers have of old caressed;

And this paled vellum Clovis Eve gilt seems
To evoke, I know not by what charm possessed,
Their perfume's spirit and shadow of their dreams.