I like a room all filled with books,

tagging the shelves round all the walls,

And scattered o'er a study table broad,

More books, as if they had been used.

Books everywhere, of every kind:

Slim and shabby, big and leather-bound,

Books dull and drab without,

But bright within, with magic words;

Poetry and prose in ringing phrase,

Page after page of men's great thoughts,

Rare volumes picturing romance,

And story books to pass away an hour.

There would be books of every kind about the room;

Not books behind glass doors

In long tight rows; with backs alike,

But books in open shelves,

Placed there by hands that loved them,

And often taken out to read.

Too much care for order is not well

Regarding books. Let them go back

Wherever space permits upon the shelves,

Or if there is not room, the floor,

Or any nearby chair will do.

Books need room, should not be cramped,

But let to lie about, convenient to the hand,

So they may breathe and feel at home.

I know the people in a house

Where books are kept like that

Would be the generous sort of folk

To whom a confidence could be entrusted

And by them would be understood;

People of broad and human minds,

Wise and tolerant. And through all they said

Would be the saving grace of humor,

For books make folks that way;

Reading gives understanding.

A man who knows and loves his books

Treads in a far and unknown world

To those poor dull ones who dislike the printed page.

And it is for beauty and for understanding

And for all the wisdom of the ages

Bound between two magic covers,

That I like a room all filled with books,

With sagging shelves found all the walls,

And scattered o'er a study table broad,

More books, as if they had been used.