Tis time to script of love of old, tis thee I cherish. Even so, only 40 minutes to execute this grand decree, since in stalwart meter didst I pump these pence.
Narry a soul, not thou, nor I should such debt this pay to visit thee, oh, Library.
For in shallows, I shall not stay. Here today, I tribute thee for thou delights hast gifted me, how sweetly I thee love.
Thou art a wonder of childhood lore in city square. Upon first visit didst I pay, deemed thou magical and so much more.
What delights doth move as memories return, five siblings and I, tender ages all, ventured o'er cobblestone, fledgling ducklings, clipped along, single-file.
Sixth heir, baby brother, our string didst lead, tucked comfortably in carriage was he. Mother, her royal place remained, her fists conjoined to carriage, she pushed until Library arrival didst we.
Embroidered with books and periodicals, thine interior did sew. Piled high, volumes upon volumes of knowledge bound, wealth of ages.
How grand art thou stature. A ladder thou librarian didst climb, story upon story, glideth she, arms outstretched for royal jewels, coral reefs of enlightenment, emerald islands of wisdom.
Such fragrance of thee twas sweet perfume – bindery glues, woven fabrics, milled newsprint, ink press, hints of musty yesteryear.
How hath I suffered greatly from romance with thee, insatiable appetite such love produceth in me. For whomever dwelleth here, happy settlement they shall reach.
Ancient, modern converge here, never waning from thy true root. Library, divine portal, thou art other worldly. A palace where souls of every walk seeketh respite from weary ways they dost travel.
Hence, before internet's advent, thou didst exist. Preceding encyclopedias, to thee I turned. Prior thine existence, Benjamin Franklin, fine, noble chap, brilliant inventor, scientist, politician, wisest of wise, formed thine predecessor.
Behold, Library, trusted guide. Thine oak catalog with tiny cards didst dutifully bear in dozens of drawers miniature brass pulls, label brackets on thee adorned. Twas thou compass that leadeth me to places, princes, paupers, planets unknown.
Thou art a kingdom where royal stewards of enlightenment dost serve. Their looking glasses uniformly perched. Clutching rotating date stampers, as universal sepulchers, they officiate access to colonies, creatures, conquerors, conquistadores.
Wherefore art thou those not blessed by such quiet, peppered with hushed voices, whispered by all. Oh, Library, my love, thou art an engendered kingdom which hast cast a spell, satisfying all who arrive empty.
Fights doth break in pubs, skirmishes ensue in markets, fists fly in streets, but nary a bloodletting occurs in thy midst. Library, Library, therefore, go to yonder streets, infect with thine goodness all those who art forsaken.
Oh, sanctified dominion, blessed realm, protected sanctuary, may thou not cease gathering souls in one accord. Whosoever this ode doth land, feel not woe, tarry not. Rather, come hither, runneth quickly to thine Library.
Oh, Library, inexhaustibly pursuant of lessons lived, depart not. Whoever seeketh life in thee, hath one's lease extended.
Where library is, there I shall be. Twas so yesteryear. Tis so today.
2012 © Copyright Paula Damon.
A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamon.paula@gmail, follow her blog at firstname.lastname@example.org and find her on FaceBook.