| |
| A SILENT room—gray with a dusty blight | |
| Of loneliness; | |
| A room with not enough of life or light | |
| Its form to dress. | |
| |
| Books enough though! The groaning sofa bears | 5 |
| A goodly store— | |
| Books on the window-seat, and on the chairs, | |
| And on the floor. | |
| |
| Books of all sorts of soul, all sorts of age, | |
| All sorts of face— | 10 |
| Black-letter, vellum, and the flimsy page | |
| Of commonplace. | |
| |
| All bindings, from the cloth whose hue distracts | |
| One’s weary nerves, | |
| To yellow parchment, binding rare old tracts | 15 |
| It serves—deserves. | |
| |
| Books on the shelves, and in the cupboard books, | |
| Worthless and rare— | |
| Books on the mantelpiece—where’er one looks | |
| Books everywhere! | 20 |
| |
| Books! books! the only things in life I find | |
| Not wholly vain. | |
| Books in my hands—books in my heart enshrined— | |
| Books in my brain. | |
| |
| My friends are they: for children and for wife | 25 |
| They serve me too; | |
| For these alone, of all dear things in life, | |
| Have I found true. | |
| |
| They do not flatter, change, deny, deceive— | |
| Ah no—not they! | 30 |
| The same editions which one night you leave | |
| You find next day. | |
| |
| You don’t find railway novels where you left | |
| Your Elzevirs! | |
| Your Aldines don’t betray you—leave bereft | 35 |
| Your lonely years! | |
| |
| And yet this common book of Common Prayer | |
| My heart prefers. | |
| Because the names upon the fly-leaf there | |
| Are mine and hers. | 40 |
| |
| It’s a dead flower that makes it open so— | |
| Forget-me-not— | |
| The Marriage Service … well, my dear, you know | |
| Who first forgot. | |
| |
| Those were the days when in the choir we two | 45 |
| Sat—used to sing— | |
| When I believed in God, in love, in you— | |
| In everything. | |
| |
| Through quiet lanes to church we used to come, | |
| Happy and good, | 50 |
| Clasp hands through sermon, and go slowly home | |
| Down through the wood. | |
| |
| Kisses? A certain yellow rose no doubt | |
| That porch still shows, | |
| Whenever I hear kisses talked about | 55 |
| I smell that rose! | |
| |
| No—I don’t blame you—since you only proved | |
| My choice unwise, | |
| And taught me books should trusted be and loved, | |
| Not lips and eyes! | 60 |
| |
| And so I keep your book—your flower—to show | |
| How much I care | |
| For the dear memory of what, you know, | |
| You never were. | |
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