Amongst the row upon row of polished shelf's,
The Books all patiently stand in file.
Their stories and facts make up their wealth,
And whatever else their leaves compile.
All human flair and brilliance laid,
The Centuries store where all wisdom meet.
The writers toiled and plied their trade,
And unto this temple we honour that feat.
The eminent Dickens was the lord of his art,
So Hardy with pen weaved a tragedy fine.
The Poets of old with their verse from the heart,
All artists of wit with great talent to shine.
From the deepest blue ocean to the brightest of stars,
The mountains by forest and brook,
The history of man through his folly in war,
All facts so abound within that nonpareil book.
For its Libraries we need for the welfare of the whole,
For every Library that dies, starves a town of it's Soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem