From sunlight and the too-green leaf we turn Into the ancient contemplative library Where a few bald heads gleam like moons, The same monks that illumined the Twelfth century Are copying out the masterpieces of the children of dancers. The fantastic candle-ghosts still play On the faces of the Scholars scratching the hag-skin vellum. Nothing is changed. The excitement of the cloister-idea! The Holy Ghost laughs again with the Brotherhood. We close behind us the grey doors. We shall not be disturbed by vexing surface trifles, The pleasure-drunken song of Come-to-Fortune And the cry of streets that have no history.