My crowded bookroom gives me greater pleasure
⁠Than misers from their money-bags can gain;
Upon its shelves rests many and many a treasure
⁠Sought for long years before I could obtain.

Therein I'm king—all elements contentious
⁠Are there subdued and dwell in perfect peace;
Mohammed there rests quietly by Mencius;
⁠There Pope and Protestant their warfare cease.

Old plays are there, old poems, old romances,
⁠Things that the busy world has long forgot;
Books full of strange and undigested fancies
⁠By brains half-mad and half-inspired begot.

All kinds of useless knowledge in it slumber;
⁠Lamb's "books that are no books" there find no rest;
Few of its tomes would be allowed to cumber
⁠Their shelves who chatter of "the hundred best."

It holds a thousand volumes none would value,
⁠Save such another "dryasdust" as I,
Though why I love them I could scarcely tell you—
⁠Lover ne'er loved who knew the reason why.

Treasures I see, wherever fall my glances,
⁠If not unique of rarity extreme,
Each with a curious history which enhances
⁠Its value past all price in my esteem.

I know wise worldlings look on me with wonder,
⁠As one beneath a strange obsession's sway.
Though they perchance the influence are under
⁠Of passions which to countless ills betray,