Saturday, January 24, 2009

Poem

By Anne Easton

You are old little book,” the small boy said:

Yet your pages are still clean and white

Your covers are stiff and your covers are straight

Do you think at your age it is right?”


In my youth,” the book said:

I came into the hands of children

Who handled me with care

They opened me gently, their fingers were clean

My margins they kept clean and fair.


They never use pencils as book marks

Nor tried to pull me apart

With such kindly treatment

My strength and my looks

Will last me the rest of my life.”

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