Classic Poem

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
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 —
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
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!

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
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!
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
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.

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
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,
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
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!

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.