Antiquarian Echoes: Time-Traveling through an Old Library's Labyrinth

In dust-laden silence, past the reach of day, The mansion's library whispered of forgotten tales, Its heartbeat echoed in the books arrayed. Time's soft touch graced each spine and page, Among them, Dickens stood with solemn grace, Austen's wit lingered, untouched by age. Balzac's illusions, faded, not effaced, Eliot's Floss, its flow stilled in place, Whitman’s grass, in tranquil state embraced. Whitaker's knowledge, a temporal space, Housed where the light through curtain's veil, Spoke volumes of a world so interlaced. The round table, center of this literary grail, Vase barren of bloom, yet filled with long-gone blooms, Oxford's rust, a testament to detail. The Davenport, proud despite its failing, A chair's broken leg, strength still prevailing, In the corner, history's desk, inviting, waiting. The hearth, with ash of fires long quelled, Storied reminders of warmth once felt, Stone and log, in quiet remembrance dwelled. Adventures found in the stillness of decay, An exploration of souls in silent ballet, An inexplicable reunion with an unknown yesterday. Here, in this grand sepulcher of intellect, A young explorer's heart would intersect With times gone, yet alive, in dust-specked respect.