Classic Poem

I

Books , books again, and books once more!
These are our theme, which some miscall
Mere madness, setting little store
By copies either short or tall.
But you, O Slaves of Shelf and Stall!
We rather write for you that hold
Patched folios dear, and prize " the small,
Rare volume, black with tarnish'd gold."

II

" Of making many books," 'twas said,
" There is no end"; and who thereon
The ever-running ink doth shed
But proves the words of Solomon.
Therefore we now, for colophon,
From London's city drear and dark,
In the year Eighteen-Eighty-One,
Reprint them at the press of CLARK.