|
The Bibliomaniac's Bride by Eugene Field
The women-folk are like to books,-- Most pleasing to the eye, Whereon if anybody looks He feels disposed to buy.
I hear that many are for sale,-- Those that record no dates, And such editions as regale The view with colored plates.
Of every quality and grade And size they may be found,-- Quite often beautifully made, As often poorly bound.
Now, as for me, had I my choice, I'd choose no folio tall, But some octavo to rejoice My sight and heart withal,--
As plump and pudgy as a snipe; Well worth her weight in gold; Of honest, clean, conspicuous type, And just the size to hold!
With such a volume for my wife How should I keep and con! How like a dream should run my life Unto its colophon!
Her frontispiece should be more fair Than any colored plate; Blooming with health, she would not care To extra-illustrate.
And in her pages there should be A wealth of prose and verse, With now and then a jeu d'esprit,-- But nothing ever worse!
Prose for me when I wished for prose, Verse when to verse inclined,-- Forever bringing sweet repose To body, heart, and mind.
Oh, I should bind this priceless prize In bindings full and fine, And keep her where no human eyes Should see her charms, but mine!
With such a fair unique as this What happiness abounds! Who--who could paint my rapturous bliss, My joy unknown to Lowndes!
|
|