Books


In time-worn chamber, sleeping lie,
In rows on rows to ceiling high
Great volumes, waiting o’er the years,
Their wizened secrets to reveal.

If knowledge ancient bore a scent,
T’would waft up, so, from spine now bent,
And pages flutt’ring ‘neath the breath
Of readers who disturb their rest.

And words drift up, through searching gaze
Into the minds of those who raised
The volume from the aged shelf,
And sought to better teach themselves.


Photograph of the library at Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina

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