The Library
Here,
in the still center
of an ocean of knowledge,
I drown in words, in worlds
beyond imagination.
Around me,
the wisdom and wit of centuries
are ranged in measured ranks,
coded, catalogued, numbered,
each word formed by printers
who touched each piece of type
and built these books,
letter by letter, word by word,
line by line, and page by page,
for those who stood then
as I, in awe, stand now:
seeing thought
transformed to ink and paper,
touching the intangible,
holding these shells to my inner
ear--
and hearing the wide, wild
ocean.
The Library Vault
We build houses
that are climate-controlled
to protect these treasures from
heat and cold and damp.
We design wrappings
that conceal their beauty,
and allow them only brief visits
to the tainted world.
We handle them gingerly
with care and trepidation,
lest we leave a mark, a stain, a
bit of oil
upon their fragile bodies.
What must it be like
to be so rare and precious,
to move from participation to
veneration,
to be in the world, and of the
world,
but not to be a part of it?
If you listen in the vault,
you can hear their sighs.
The Tour
A teaspoon of the ocean:
that is what I have to give
this group of
the curious, the bored,
the eager, the indifferent,
victims or passionate
participants
in a quick-march
through history and
literature.
Barely a teaspoon
of the rich, sweet, liquid
language and history
of those who searched,
who gathered, who saved--
who honored
this one man, this one
place,
with their patience, care,
and love.
So I herd them into a
compact mass
and speak in their
collective ear,
telling the story yet again
of the living library in
which we stand;
of Henry and Emily and their
dream;
of the glover's son and his
timeless words:
measuring with my teaspoon
the ocean of this world.
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