A lot of dust. Volumes en masse.
With pages stained by blackened shelves.
Somehow, this dying state, I guess,
Requires a saviour--not ourselves.
Not you, the expert dressed in white,
Whose linen suite could make a shroud
And make a row of souls, no doubt,
Turn critical, not die aloud.
Not you, the student truly decked
In fashion's latest, costly gear,
Whose mind desires but study-fact
To keep book voices from his ear.
Not I, the pedagogue, the man
Who knows too well what he must teach,
And so deliver words upon
Great poetry: in easy reach.
More dust. And debris in each fold.
But covers clean, in pristine state.
At least these spirits (we have failed)
Go well attired to meet their fate.
But no. Perhaps, there's hope at hand.
Here comes the Age's new-twinned mind:
A man and woman who are very fond
Of poetry of every kind.
He seeks a "poem" (one syllable)
And sips spring water as he reads,
While she, with eyebrows like a quill,
Picks volumes out to meet his needs.
He finds each image "Brill and cool!"
And never questions what books cost,
While she, in love with modern style,
Puts hands on spines and heals the lost.
The expert moves aside from this,
Looks serious, bows head and grieves.
Entranced, I wait for Death to pass,
The books to walk. The student leaves.
Amazed: "There really is such choice."
They talk with ecstasy and rave,
As I turn cold and start to face
How I can't find a book to save.