Heaven would lose its heavenly looks Had heaven no books; And even there, I firmly hold, They must grow old, To range along the jasper walls In old book-stalls. And heaven must have some money, too, -- Small change will do, -- For what so perfect paradise As when one buys A Boswell, say, a tome immense For fifteen cents? I hope they'll not consign to hell That musty smell, Dear token of the cobwebbed nooks Crammed with old books. 'Tis honored far above the rose By many a nose. The streets of gold, I hope and trust, Have some slight dust; Old books would wear an awkward mien Were they too clean, Unsprinkled with the symbol sage Of hoary age. And finally, my prayer is bold, That heaven will hold Some wrapping paper and some twine, And be it mine To carry home the bulky charm Beneath my arm! |