When I am wan and weary,
And know not what to do;
I turn to books, my old friends;
They always see me through.
With every page I turn,
In a quiet, happy trance;
I visit distant places,
Without a backward glance.
Contentment fills my soul,
Serene and quite composed;
Silent secrets fill my heart,
Completely undisclosed.
Of cunning plots and clever plans,
Of mystries complicated;
That have me chuckling silently,
Suitably compensated.
Now, how can I be miserable,
Caught within a woeful trap?
With a cup of tea beside me,
And CS Lewis on my lap?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nothing like getting lost in a good book and a nice drink close at hand, great poem.