On Expecting some Books

To-morrow they will come.  I know

How rich their sweet contents are, so

Upon their dress let Fancy play-

Will it be blue, red, green or grey?

Sweet Books that I have oft heard named,

And seen stand up like blossoms framed,

Through many a common window shown-

When I was moneyless in town;

But never touched their leaves, nor bent

Close to them and inhaled their scent.

They’ll come like snowdrops to a Bee

That, tired of empty dreams, can see

Real flowers at last.  Until this time,

Now on the threshold of my prime,

I did not guess my poverty;

That none of these rich Books, that lie

Untouched on many shelf- save when

A housemaid, dreaming of young men

And music, sport, and dance, and dress,

Will bang them for their dustiness-

That none of these were in my care;

To-morrow I will have them here.

Well do I know their value; they

Will not be purses found, which may

Be full of coppers, nails or keys-

They will not disappoint, like these.

Books I can always trust; for they

Will not tell neighbours what I say,

What time I go to bed and rise,

What eat and drink.  They’ll make no cries

For cloth to suit the season; no

Oft going out, to make me grow

Jealous of their long absence.  When

I’m visited by living men,

They will not sulk and cast bad looks

When left unflattered.  These sweet Books

Will not be heard to grumble that

I keep the room too hot or cold;

The one in Leather will not chide

To feel a cloth one touch his side.

O may their coming never cease!

May my book family increase;

Clothes, pictures, ornaments of show,

Trinklets and mirrors- these can go

Outside, that all my Books may be

Together in one room with me.