On selling one's books

Here's a sonnet - just one more, I swear I'll move on soon - but here's one which I could not resist posting. It's a bit melancholy for any bookish person to read, even now. It was written in 1841 by book collector William Stanley Roscoe, which just goes to show that obsessive book lovers never change. I do like the final line, with its suggestion that heaven entails being able to converse directly with all the great writers who have gone ahead. That's my idea of something heavenly!




On Being Forced to Part with his Library for the Benefit of his Creditors

As one who destined from his friends to part,
Regrets his loss, yet hopes again ere-while
To share their converse and enjoy their smile,
And tempers, as he may, affliction's dart --
Thus, loved associates! chiefs of elder art!
Teachers of wisdom! who could once beguile
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil,
I now resign you; nor with fainting heart --
For pass a few short years, or days, or hours,
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold,
And all your sacred fellowship restore;
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers,
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,
And kindred spirits meet to part no more.