The Prince of Books, by William Wallis

You enter the chamber, keyless, rere regardant,

Hand swinging free. Your young lions--nascent seekers,

Players, those in-between--prowl the aisles and stacks,

Ink-fingered, full of keys and new commands.

Where does the true lover of books go to rest

Among the endless layers that come and go,

Shifting beneath a weak roof, within dim walls

Hung thick with prints in Aunt Joan’s favorite frame?

Infinite titles sigh, seek penciled prices, proceed

Across broad tables toward bowed shelves. Then

As the door swings shut behind you, light brushes

Quick over the lines and rows, dusting it all in silver.

A community of hands tends your field of words.

The crown’s trembling passes calmly forward.

From “Dutton’s Books and Other Poems” by William Wallis. (Stone & Scott, Publishers , P.O. Box 56419 , Sherman Oaks , CA 91413: $7; 65 pp.) 1995 Reprinted by permission.