Poemsby Emily Dickinson
Unto my books so good to turn Far ends of tired days; It half endears the abstinence, And pain is missed in praise.
As flavors cheer retarded guests With banquetings to be, So spices stimulate the time Till my small library.
It may be wilderness without, Far feet of failing men, But holiday excludes the night, And it is bells within.
I thank these kinsmen of the shelf; Their countenances bland Enamour in prospective, And satisfy, obtained.