I seek few treasures, except books, the tools
Of those celestial souls the world calls fools.
Happy the morning giving time to stop
An hour at once in Basil Blackwell’s shop
There, in the Broad, within whose booky house
Half of England’s scholars nibble books or browse.
Where’er they wander blessed fortune theirs,
Books to the ceiling, other books upstairs:
Books, doubtless, in the cellar, and behind
Romantic bays, where iron ladders wind.
And in odd nooks sometimes in little shelves,
Lintot’s and Tonson’s calf-bound dainty twelves.
John Masefield, born on this day in 1878
Of those celestial souls the world calls fools.
Happy the morning giving time to stop
An hour at once in Basil Blackwell’s shop
There, in the Broad, within whose booky house
Half of England’s scholars nibble books or browse.
Where’er they wander blessed fortune theirs,
Books to the ceiling, other books upstairs:
Books, doubtless, in the cellar, and behind
Romantic bays, where iron ladders wind.
And in odd nooks sometimes in little shelves,
Lintot’s and Tonson’s calf-bound dainty twelves.
John Masefield, born on this day in 1878


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