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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MILITARY MIND by CHARLIE SMITH FAREWELL TO NANCY by ROBERT BURNS THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD: SONG by OLIVER GOLDSMITH THE WOODSPURGE by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI SONNET: 99 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE TO A LADY TO ANSWER DIRECTLY WITH YEA OR NAY by THOMAS WYATT |