Page 17 - Poetry-Books

A Book, Or a Riddle

I’m a strange contraction; I’m new, and I’m old,
I’m often in tatters, and oft decked with gold.
Though I could never read, yet lettered I’m found;
Though blind, I enlighten; though loose, I am bound,
I’m always in black, and I’m always in white;
I’m grave and I’m gay, I am heavy and light—
In form too, I differ—I’m thick and I’m thin,
I’ve no flesh and bones, yet I’m covered with skin;
I’ve more points than the compass, more stops than the flute;
I sing without voice, without speaking confute.
I’m English, I’m German, I’m French, and I’m Dutch;
Some love me too fondly, some slight me too much;
I often die soon, though I sometimes live ages,
And no monarch alive has so many pages.

— Hannah More (from a Victorian Scrap Album)

The Book-Hunter

A cup of coffee, eggs, and rolls
Sustain him on his morning strolls:
Unconscious of the passers-by,
He trudges on with downcast eye;
He wears a queer old hat and coat,
Suggestive of a style remote;
His manner is preoccupied,—
A shambling gait, from side to side.
For him the sleek, bright-windowed shop
Is all in vain,—he does not stop.

~ 15 ~