Ode to a second-hand book

In old pages unturned

Old words remain unlearned

And what wisdom

Might lie therein

Once an old book we begin

Read, not because you ought

But because so much less is taught

Than can be captured in a line of prose

There's where imagination grows

The poet's sorrows

And love defined

The hardest road

The sweetest wine

The fiercest fight

And battles won

The finest hour

The saddest song

And all of it waiting to be found

Neatly typeset and leather bound

In old pages unturned

Old words remain unlearned

And what wisdom

Might lie therein

Once an old book we begin