LIFE’S BOOK

Life is a book we love to read, to own;

this one or that — each volume utmost dear

to its own reader; loth to put it down

of our own free will, in the reading, we’re

so engrossed, that all else around is solely

a hush of noise, struggling our ear to gain,

and ne’er the soul; which is absorbed so wholly

by the ongoing tale — too entertained,

as the days and the hours go slowly by.

Meanwhile, outside, the shadows stretch to fly

and the room fills with twilight, light grows thin,

and the print fades, now scarcely to be seen;

and darkness falls: Evening our way is wending —

and we sigh, put the book down, none too keen.

And not one yet has reached the story’s ending.