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Eugene Field - De Amicitiis
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Though care and strife
        Elsewhere be rife,
Upon my word I do not heed `em;
        In bed I lie
        With books hard by,
And with increasing zest I read `em.

        Propped up in bed,
        So much I`ve read
Of musty tomes that I`ve a headful
        Of tales and rhymes
        Of ancient times,
Which, wife declares, are "simply dreadful!"

        They give me joy
        Without alloy;
And isn`t that what books are made for?
        And yet—and yet—
        (Ah, vain regret!)
I would to God they all were paid for!

        No festooned cup
        Filled foaming up
Can lure me elsewhere to confound me;
        Sweeter than wine
        This love of mine
For these old books I see around me!

        A plague, I say,
        On maidens gay;
I`ll weave no compliments to tell `em!
        Vain fool I were,
        Did I prefer
Those dolls to these old friends in vellum!

        At dead of night
        My chamber`s bright
Not only with the gas that`s burning,
        But with the glow
        Of long ago,—
Of beauty back from eld returning.

        Fair women`s looks
        I see in books,
I see them, and I hear their laughter,—
        Proud, high-born maids,
        Unlike the jades
Which men-folk now go chasing after!

        Herein again
        Speak valiant men
Of all nativities and ages;
        I hear and smile
        With rapture while
I turn these musty, magic pages.

        The sword, the lance,
        The morris dance,
The highland song, the greenwood ditty,
        Of these I read,
        Or, when the need,
My Miller grinds me grist that`s gritty!

        When of such stuff
        We`ve had enough,
Why, there be other friends to greet us;
        We`ll moralize
        In solemn wise
With Plato or with Epictetus.

        Sneer as you may,
        I`m proud to say
That I, for one, am very grateful
        To Heaven, that sends
        These genial friends
To banish other friendships hateful!

        And when I`m done,
        I`d have no son
Pounce on these treasures like a vulture;
        Nay, give them half
        My epitaph,
And let them share in my sepulture.

        Then, when the crack
        Of doom rolls back
The marble and the earth that hide me,
        I`ll smuggle home
        Each precious tome,
Without a fear my wife shall chide me!
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