They slept through beauty of the night
They winged into the morning light.
They danced through all the turbid morn-
I was bereft, and sad - forlorn.
They skipped through afternoon's bright beams,
and sailed away with moonlight's gleams.
They mirthfully would dance with glee.
They cried, and then they laughed at me.
They came and went throughout each day.
Those unscribed poems just slipped away. Books Books are ships that carry men around the earth.
Books are vessels rolling by with tales of mirth.
Books are derelict hulks that bear a gloomy tale ...