They sit in jumbles on my bedroom floor,
And for their sake I never dim the light;
To finish one I'd sit up half the night
Forever turning over just one more
Exciting page; I'd run and lock the door,
And then rush back, sure that nobody might
Disturb my reverie, invade my sight,
Or ask me what I had been reading for.
My books demand no purpose, need no end,
Are self-sufficient in themselves for me;
In them I find an ever-present friend,
And who could ever doubt their constancy?
If you would aid my happiness, then send
Another book, and give me privacy.
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