There;s a feeling in a room with books, the love the depth the warmth of something that’s alive. The ranks and rows of old campaigners stand. Passed from hand to hand, friend to friend, to me. The flames in shadow dance upon this earth; burns, belloc, Blunden, Bridges, Beardsley, Brooke; Inscribed with care from Lover, Mother, Friend. Hughes, Hardy, Henly, Hopkins, Hugo, Hood. iN faded hand ‘December 1910′. Books form the libraries of Laureates, Volumes revered as Bibles at the front, Classics, passions, open wounds, injustice. As full-bodied wine, verse, chapter, stanza. Spill and flow out across the flood lit lawns, from leathered desk to some dark, secret place. And here I sit, surrounded by my friends, their words remain though they themselves hare gone. Their lives re-lived within my favourite room.
-original author unknown / lost. found it scribbled on a piece of paper.
