Within this vaunted house of antique works,
As if the reading rooms aren’t fat with brain,
Queued up for inspiration’s errant spark.
What are the books that line the shelves and stacks,
Some dragon’s hoard of knowledge to be veiled?
Each unread, unturned page a founding block,
Atop this ivory peak select ere scale.
This silence breeds an unlit beacon’s plea,
An idea planted as I speak the oath;
That knowledge always wanted to be free,
To light the way for prince and pauper both.
Soon spilling flames shall course and cleanse and scour,
And finally wake this Ilium’s spires.
