The Book-Lover

I LOVE a book, if there but run
From title-page to colophon
Something sincere that sings or glows,
Whate’er the text be, rhyme or prose.
And high-perched on some window-seat,
Or in some ingle-side retreat,
Or in an alcove consecrate
To lore and to the lettered great,
For happiness I need not look
Beyond the pages of my book.
Yea, I believe that, like an elf,
I’d be contented with a shelf,
If thereupon with me might sit
Some work of wisdom or of wit
Whereto, at pleasure, I might turn,
And the fair face of Joy discern!

I love a book, — its throbbing heart!
And while I may not hold the art
That dresses it in honor scant, —
The tree-calf “tooled” or “crushed” Levant,—
Rather a rare soul, verily,
Than a bedizened husk for me!
So, though no Midas’ magic hands
To gold transmute my barren sands,
Though friendly Fame deign not to lay
About my brows the vine and bay,
Though fond eyes marry not with mine,
Nor lip to lip give sacred sign,
The core of all content I know,
A blessing that is balm for woe ;
On life with level gaze I look,
And all because I love — a book!