Classic Poem

They dwell in the odour of camphor,
They stand in a Sheraton shrine,
They are " warranted early editions, "
These worshipful tomes of mine; —

In their creamiest " Oxford vellum, "
In their redolent " crushed Levant, "
With their delicate watered linings,
They are jewels of price, I grant; —

Blind-tooled and morocco-jointed,
They have Zaehnsdorf's daintiest dress,
They are graceful, attenuate, polished,
But they gather the dust, no less; —

For the row that I prize is yonder,
Away on the unglazed shelves,
The bulged and the bruised octavos ,
The dear and the dumpy twelves, —

Montaigne with his sheepskin blistered,
And Howell the worse for wear,
And the worm-drilled Jesuits' Horace,
And the little old cropped Moliere,

And the Burton I bought for a florin,
And the Rabelais foxed and flea'd, —
For the others I never have opened,
But those are the books I read.