The Old Library ©
Here they sit in towering rows
Dressed in tattered dust jackets,
Bronte, Blake and Walter De La Mare.
Curio relics, my yesterday's muse.
They sense the fire within me,
Fuel my hunger with pure ambience,
And flame my heart to wield the mighty pen.
I climb the old marble staircase,
Twisting round and round
Inhaling smells of oiled cracked leather
And lavender polished red mahogany.
Motes of sunlight, dancing dust fire-flies
Flicker in the ghost-like gloom;
Speckled rainbows on gold embossed wall hangings.
Here I sit among the world's great Poets,
Humbled I drink their century's dreams,
Here I can think the silence,
Here I can write my masterpiece.