Books

I cannot think the glorious world of mind,
 Embalm'd in books, which I can only see
In patches, though I read my moments blind,
Is to be lost to me.

I have a thought that, as we live elsewhere,
 So will those dear creations of the brain;
That what I lose unread, I'll find, and there
Take up my joy again.

O then the bliss of blisses, to be freed
 From all the wants by which the world is driven;
With liberty and endless time to read
The libraries of Heaven!


Robert Leighton