Classic Poem

Y OU'RE proud of your fine old china,
I'm proud of my volumes rare;
Some people may call us crazy,
But what do you and I care?
Through the quaint little shops and gloomy,
Where curious trifles are sold,
In the depths of ancient cities
You'll hunt till you're grey and old.

And the bookshelves I will ransack
In many a grimy store;
Yes, I as a keen detective
Will, down from roof to floor,
Haul folios huge and stately,
Written in bygone ages
By minstrels, who as they penn'd love-lays
Dropped tears on the parchment pages.

And I'll longingly look for the miniatures,
Those dear little dainty books,
Prettily deck'd in purple and gold,
That one reads in the grass-green nooks.
I mean the kind that are richly stored
With beautiful, pure romances,
And the mystical song of the gales and seas
That a sorrowful heart entrances.