Give me the room whose every nook Is dedicated to a book: Two windows will suffice for air And grant the light admission there,— One looking to the south, and one To speed the red, departing sun. The eastern wall from frieze to plinth Shall be the Poet’s labyrinth, Where one may find the lords of rhyme From Homer’s down to Dobson’s time; And at the northern side a space Shall show an open chimney-place, Set round with ancient tiles that tell Some legend old, and weave a spell About the firedog-guarded seat, Where, musing, one may taste the heat: Above, the mantel should not lack For curious and bric-á-brac,— Not much, but just enough to light The room up when the fire is bright. The volumes on this wall should be All prose and all philosophy, From Plato down to those who are The dim reflections of that star; And these tomes all should serve to show How much we write—how little know; For since the problem first was set No one has ever solved it yet. Upon the shelves along the west The scientific books shall rest; Beside them, History; above,— Religion,—hope, and faith, and love: Lastly, the southern wall should hold The story-tellers, new and old; Haroun al Raschid, who was truth And happiness to all my youth, Shall have the honored place of all That dwell upon the sunny wall; And with him there shall stand a throng Of those who help mankind along More by their fascinating lies Than all the learning of the wise. Such be the library; and take This motto of a Latin make To grace the door through which I pass: Hic habitat Felicitas!
The Library
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