Coin of ours can never ransom
Years now prisoner to Time:
Roars the bus, where once the hansom
Trotted on the trial of crime.
No more now a Stradivarius
Played by fingers long and fleet
Sounds the dirge of plans nefarious
Foiled by him of Baker Street.

Could we, with an eye clairvoyant,
Find the dear remembered door,
Which, with trembling, many a client
(Fair or famous) stood before?
Here it was that Roylott forced an
Entry, like some savage bear;
Here, bright eyes of Mary Morstan
Fell to Watson's ardent stare.

Were a time-restoring charter
Granted by the grace of Heaven,
Who would not this tired age barter
For a night of 'eighty-seven,
When, as fog through pane and curtain
Softly grey comes creeping in,
Wise-immortal-strange and certain-
Sherlock plays his violin.

I know next to nothing about this author, having found the poem in the front of a book of new stories about Sherlock Holmes.  However, Sherlock stories have always captured my attention and this poem is another way, other than reading the one of the painfully small amount of stories, to remember Sherlock Holmes and all the magic involved in reading a story about him.  

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