Classic Poem

My books—a ragged lot are they,
 Like Falstaff's men at Shrewsbury—
 A sight to make a critic merry!
And yet to me each dingy book
Appeals with such a friendly look,
 To part with them I shall not hurry.

My Goldsmith's muslin coat is torn;
 My Boswell I have clothed in cotton;
 Old Samuel's leather suit is rotten;
Macaulay's page is marked with grime
Beyond my power to tell in rhyme,—
 Perhaps it might be Hottentot in.

I've read Sir Walter to the core,—
 His volumes now are somewhat battered;
 My Shakspere too is somewhat battered;
My poets all—Burns, Byron, Keats,
Poe, Coleridge—I have sucked their sweets
 And left the calyx somewhat shattered.

A double preciousness to me
 Do these old dingy books discover;
 As hawthorn tree reminds the lover
Of pleasant hours long passed away,
When here he sat with darling May,
 While shone the evening star above her;

Even so the sight of these old books
 My oft-despondent heart rejoices;
 I hear again long-silent voices;
The quiet nook, the grassy lane,
The shining stream I see again,
 While white-winged peace above me poises.