Poetry Archives

Though care and strife
        Elsewhere be rife,
Upon my word I do not heed ’em;
        In bed I lie
        With books hard by,
And with increasing zest I read ’em.

        Propped up in bed,
        So much I’ve read
Of musty tomes that I’ve a headful
        Of tales and rhymes
        Of ancient times,
Which, wife declares, are “simply dreadful!”

        They give me joy
        Without alloy;
And isn’t that what books are made for?
        And yet—and yet—
        (Ah, vain regret!)
I would to God they all were paid for!

        No festooned cup
        Filled foaming up
Can lure me elsewhere to confound me;
        Sweeter than wine
        This love of mine
For these old books I see around me!

        A plague, I say,
        On maidens gay;
I’ll weave no compliments to tell ’em!
        Vain fool I were,
        Did I prefer
Those dolls to these old friends in vellum!

        At dead of night
        My chamber’s bright
Not only with the gas that’s burning,
        But with the glow
        Of long ago,—
Of beauty back from eld returning.

        Fair women’s looks
        I see in books,
I see them, and I hear their laughter,—
        Proud, high-born maids,
        Unlike the jades
Which men-folk now go chasing after!

        Herein again
        Speak valiant men
Of all nativities and ages;
        I hear and smile
        With rapture while
I turn these musty, magic pages.

        The sword, the lance,
        The morris dance,
The highland song, the greenwood ditty,
        Of these I read,
        Or, when the need,
My Miller grinds me grist that’s gritty!

        When of such stuff
        We’ve had enough,
Why, there be other friends to greet us;
        We’ll moralize
        In solemn wise
With Plato or with Epictetus.

        Sneer as you may,
        I’m proud to say
That I, for one, am very grateful
        To Heaven, that sends
        These genial friends
To banish other friendships hateful!

        And when I’m done,
        I’d have no son
Pounce on these treasures like a vulture;
        Nay, give them half
        My epitaph,
And let them share in my sepulture.

        Then, when the crack
        Of doom rolls back
The marble and the earth that hide me,
        I’ll smuggle home
        Each precious tome,
Without a fear my wife shall chide me!