HOW I love thee, little book! Virgil made thee years ago— Sweeter poet never lived In this winter-world of ours; And good Didot printed well All thy pages fair to see; 'T was an artist of rare grace Made the pictures that adorn Volume of such sweet delight, From the Roman singer's heart. What companionship is thine, Gentle friend of happy hours! When I turn thy sacred leaves, Page on page of minted gold, Jewels from the mine of thought, Flowers of earth, and asphodel, All are mine—O, treasure great! When the evening shadows fall, And the twinkling stars on high Burn above my quiet home, In my little room I go, And before the firelight muse, With the Georgics open wide. Æneas lives again in thee: Throng around me men of old; Songs of battle and of love, Songs of ploughed and fertile fields, Gladness of our human life, Toil, and sorrow, and despair, All that man has known or been, Throb and burn upon thy page. O, what bliss my heart inspires, As I wander far away, With my Virgil hand in hand! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE BEING AS MOMENT by HAYDEN CARRUTH WHEN I WROTE A LITTLE by HAYDEN CARRUTH A TIME TO DANCE by CECIL DAY LEWIS TWO POEMS FROM THE WAR: 2 by ARCHIBALD MACLEISH STUDY FOR A GEOGRAPHICAL TRAIL; 5. MARYLAND by CLARENCE MAJOR |