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
   Bowed gently o'er his volume that sweet sage
   To Silence paid his willing seigniorage.
And they who found him whispered, "He is dead!"

Thus timely from old comradeships would I
   To Silence also rise. Let there be night,
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.