A labyrinth of leather and paper and ink
Of whispers and tales but half-told
The stories that wait here, just biding their time,
May sleep, but will never grow old.
The air speaks of secrets and riddles by night
And whispers of mystery by day.
Can you find the answer? Come; just close your eyes.
Don’t think; let your heart lead the way.
Your fingertips rustle on leather and dust.
The books are now speaking to you.
They all seem to beg you, “please, just take a peek!
Or, if you would care to, have two! ”
The books speak of treasures that wait for you here:
Just open the cover and see!
Would you prefer romance, or maybe a laugh?
There’s one: down a shelf, over three.
This is a story of brave, daring deeds,
Of princesses, dragons, and kings.
Or this, in the cover of blue velveteen,
Is the tale of a milkmaid who sings.
Watch out for the one in the cover of brown!
He’s elderly, falling apart.
He has a good tale, but be careful with him:
His loss would almost break my heart.
What is that one which you have in your hand?
Black cloth with a title of gold?
I see it has stood here for many a year
Unopened; looks new though it’s old.
I don’t know its story; I saw it but once.
‘Twas brought here in secret one night.
The owner was frightened; he hid it back here,
Then fled as if chased by a wight!
You’re welcome to take it, it ought to be read.
It’s been hiding here for too long
With no one to love it or re-read the parts
That sound in one’s heart like a gong.
The daylight is fading and you should go home:
Make sure the door’s closed when you leave!
It will be open whenever you come, but
One book is enough for this eve.