A Book Lover

Perhaps my plaintive, sighing ghost will walk,
On moonlit autumn eves,
Along the aisles of some library old,
Where autumn brings the scent of sodden leaves,
And leather volumes, stippled dim with gold.
The glasses of the cases, shut and dim,
Shall, by my loving fingers, be caressed;
And, in the morning, 'cross the dusty shelves,
They'll find the finger prints of their strange guest

^__Louisa Cooke Don-Carlos.