The Library (from years ago—the fact, not the poem)

Row on row on row of books
On shelf on shelf on shelf,
Bound in leather, bound in paper,
Each a world within itself.
And all are mine to gaze upon,
Or open, if I dare,
To find a sun-lit land of dawn
With knowledge everywhere.
Row on row on row of books,
Up-standing, tall and proud,
With worshippers who come to look,
Their heads o’er pages bowed.
Librarian, librarian,
Can you find this for me?
She smiles then, so good to see,
And says, “Most certainly.”
Row on row on row of books
We wander down and through,
Past modern, ancient, history,
And Latest Engines, too!
Then round a corner, to a nook,
Where there I see a rocket book!
And my librarian smiles at me,
And I’m in lift-off, glad to be!
Row on row on row of books
On shelf on shelf on shelf;
Bound in leather, bound in paper,
Each a dream within itself!

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