I pity the poor libraaariannnn
Who sits there in the cold
His building open to the sky
Who is also growing old
Who wanders in his books all day
And finds too much to say
And dewey-minded wanders home
At the end of every day.

I pity the libraaariannn
Whose world fills with the lines
Of deathless prose and death-like facts
Borrowed from other minds;
Whose time is measured by the page
When his heart yearns to be free
And slowly grows upon an age
When there's nothing else to be.

A man who rightly would prefer
To be upon the range,
Or riding with the Legionaires
Must find it passing strange
That he once knew freedom's might
Stepping out upon the world
Now reads himself to sleep each night,
To dream of sails unfurled.

Of open seas, and mighty foes,
And deeds so bravely done!
Of nights upon the jungle's breast
Where the native girls do run,
Of distant islands in the sun,
Where the tropic breezes blow,
Who turns to sleep, then, with a sigh,
With nothing else to know.

Sam B. Dillon
Coffee Shoppe Aires of Oldene Dayes
Winsome, Sweete, Fayre and Blande
Rye, New York, 2002