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Eugene Field - My Garden
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My garden aboundeth in pleasant nooks
  And fragrance is over it all;
For sweet is the smell of my old, old books
  In their places against the wall.

Here is a folio that`s grim with age
  And yellow and green with mould;
There`s the breath of the sea on every page
  And the hint of a stanch ship`s hold.

And here is a treasure from France la belle
  Exhaleth a faint perfume
Of wedded lily and asphodel
  In a garden of song abloom.

And this wee little book of Puritan mien
  And rude, conspicuous print
Hath the Yankee flavor of wintergreen,
  Or, may be, of peppermint.

In Walton the brooks a-babbling tell
  Where the cheery daisy grows,
And where in meadow or woodland dwell
  The buttercup and the rose. 

But best beloved of books, I ween,
  Are those which one perceives
Are hallowed by ashes dropped between
  The yellow, well-thumbed leaves.

For it`s here a laugh and it`s there a tear,
  Till the treasured book is read;
And the ashes betwixt the pages here
  Tell us of one long dead.

But the gracious presence reappears
  As we read the book again,
And the fragrance of precious, distant years
  Filleth the hearts of men.

Come, pluck with me in my garden nooks
  The posies that bloom for all;
Oh, sweet is the smell of my old, old books
  In their places against the wall!
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