A Scholar by Don Paterson

A Scholar

Pro captu lectoris habent sua fata libelli 

The light is dying, and the clock has died;

the page succumbs to the atrocious care

that disinters the things not wholly there

by which your solemn field is justified. 

You burnish them until they bear the shine 

of common knowledge, knowing one black skill 

is yours alone: before the greater will

all text is dream, and takes on the design

of what was sought there. Thus your word is God. 

This grammarie electrifies the gate;

none pass but such as you initiate.

The students hurry by you in the quad 

attending to their feet. What can you say? 

You know your Shakespeare would have walked that way.