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library poem
Posted by: twigery (---.access.uk.tiscali.com)
Date: October 06, 2004 10:02AM

Please can anyone guide me towards this aged poem which I first bumped into back in the mid 90s.
It is about someone going into their library and closing the door to all who have other things on their minds and unable to appreciate all those books.
I think it was written late 1700s or early 1800s, but not sure.
Would really appreciate any nudges as I feel the few lines I read actually said so much.
Many Thanks for reading this.

not the one you are looking for ...
Posted by: ilza (---.162.245.52.user.ajato.com.br)
Date: October 06, 2004 07:54PM

while you wait ...
( I have not found yours yet)

A nook and a book
by William Freeland ( 1828 - 1903 )

Give me a nook and a book,
And let the proud world spin round;
Let it scramble by hook or by crook
For wealth or a name with a sound.

You are welcome to amble your ways,
Aspirers to place or to glory;
May big bells jangle your praise,
And golden pens blazon your story!

For me, let me dwell in my nook,
Here by the curve of this brook,
That croons to the tune of my book,
Whose melody wafts me forever
On the waves of an unseen river.

Give me a book and a nook
Far away from the glitter and strife;
Give me a staff and a crook,
The calm and the sweetness of life;
Let me pause - let me brood as I list,
On the marvels of heaven's own spinning
- Sunlight and moonlight and mist,
Glorious without slaying or sinning.

Vain world, let me reign in my nook,
King of this kingdom, my book,
A region by fashion forsook;
Pass on, ye lean gamblers for glory,
Nor mar the sweet tune of my story!


Open This Door of All Doors
A poem written by Kim Stafford for Woodstock Branch Library

This is the mansion of many rooms, and it sleeps.
This is the grove of many precious lives, and it waits
for your hand on the door, your wish opening a book.

This is the place to remember what happened
before you were born. Unfold the bud your lightest
touch at the lit screen. Unfurl the leaf an idea waking.

Uncover the flower this dream with helpers at every turn,
where your reading measures all: art and alphabet, fact
and photograph, number, symbol, story, tune. Our treasures.

Down the aisle you softly tread, where a book will beckon,
you open, and in your hand trembles all you want to be.
Remember? The small thing gives meaning to the great.

You have the power to open centuries that trees hold
silent in their rings. This palace of the possible needs you,
Your hand on the door. Enchant this place awake.

In the Library
by Anne C. L. Botta

Speak low - tread softly through these halls;
Here genius lives enshrined, -
Here reign, in silent majesty,
The monarchs of the mind.

A mighty spirit-host, they come
From every age and clime;
Above the buried wrecks of years
They breast the tide of time.

And in their presence-chamber here
They hold their regal state,
And round them throng a noble train,
The gifted and the great.
My Books
by Francis Bennoch

I love my books as drinkers love their wine;
The more I drink, the more they seem divine;
With joy elate my soul in love runs o'er,
And each fresh draught is sweeter than before.
Books bring me friends where'er on earth I be, -
Solace of solitude, - bonds of society!

I love my books! they are companions dear,
Sterling in worth, in friendship most sincere;
Here talk I with the wise in ages gone,
And with the nobly gifted of our own.
If love, joy, laughter, sorrow please my mind,
Love, joy, grief, laughter in my books I find.

The Library
by John Greenleaf Whittier
(sung at the opening of the Haverhill Public Library)

"Let There be Light!" God spake of old,
And over chaos dark and cold,
And through the dead and formless frame
Of nature, life and order came.

Faint was the light at first that shone
On giant fern and mastadon,
On half-formed plant and beast of prey
And man as rude and wild as they.

Age after age, like wave, o'erran
The earth, uplifting brute and man;
And mind, at length, in symbols dark
It's meaning traced on stone and bark.

On leaf of palm, on sedge-wrought roll,
On plastic clay and leathern scroll,
Man wrote his thoughts; the ages passed,
And lo! The Press was found at last!

Then dead souls woke; the thoughts of men
Whose bones were dust revived again;
The cloister's silence found a tongue,
Old prophets spake, old poets sung.

And here, to-day, the dead look down
The kings of mind again we crown;
We hear the voices lost so long,
The sage's word, the sibyl's song.

Here Greek and Roman find themselves
Alive along these crowded shelves;
And Shakespeare treads again his stage,
And Chaucer paints anew his age.

As if some Pantheon's marbles broke
Their story trance, and lived and spoke
Life thrills along the alcoved hall.
The lords of thought await our call!

Re: library poem
Posted by: twigery (---.onspeed.com)
Date: November 07, 2004 08:02AM

Hello ilza, I tried to write a while ago but not sure how to use the forum properly and think it may be lost. Did really want you to know how much I appreciated the poems you sent.........They have given much pleasure, although I am still looking for the original,
Fingers crossed that one day I will come across it again and smell the dust while mentally turning the pages in the aged library.

Many Thanks again for your help]

Re: library poem
Posted by: IanB (---.tnt11.mel1.da.uu.net)
Date: November 08, 2004 04:19PM

Nice collection, Ilza!

Twigs, can you remember any lines or phrases or unusual words from the poem you are looking for?


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