IN torrid heats of late July, <br />In March, beneath the bitter bise, <br />He book-hunts while the loungers fly, <br />He book-hunts, though December freeze; <br />In breeches baggy at the knees, <br />And heedless of the public jeers, <br />For these, for these, he hoards his fees,— <br />Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs. <br /> <br />No dismal stall escapes his eye, <br />He turns o’er tomes of low degrees, <br />There soiled romanticists may lie, <br />Or Restoration comedies; <br />Each tract that flutters in the breeze <br />For him is charged with hopes and fears, <br />In mouldy novels fancy sees <br />Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs. <br /> <br />With restless eyes that peer and spy, <br />Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees, <br />In dismal nooks he loves to pry, <br />Whose motto evermore is Spes! <br />But ah! the fabled treasure flees; <br />Grown rarer with the fleeting years, <br />In rich men’s shelves they take their ease,— <br />Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs! <br /> <br />ENVOY <br /> <br />Prince, all the things that tease and please,— <br />Fame, hope, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears, <br />What are they but such toys as these,— <br />Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs?<br /><br />Andrew Lang<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ballades-ii-of-the-book-hunter/
