| Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Little Book of Modern Verse. 1917. |
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| 118. Ex Libris |
| | | By Arthur Upson |
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| IN an old book at even as I read | |
| Fast fading words adown my shadowy page, | |
| I crossed a tale of how, in other age, | |
| At Arqua, with his books around him, sped | |
| The word to Petrarch; and with noble head | 5 |
| Bowed gently o’er his volume that sweet sage | |
| To Silence paid his willing seigniorage. | |
| And they who found him whispered, “He is dead!” | |
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| Thus timely from old comradeships would I | |
| To Silence also rise. Let there be night, | 10 |
| Stillness, and only these staid watchers by, | |
| And no light shine save my low study light— | |
| Lest of his kind intent some human cry | |
| Interpret not the Messenger aright. | |
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