The reading room is packed and strewn br with oil soap scented shelves, br of cherry wood, and as I stood br and held the brass hand rail, br the AWE I felt was like a well br too deep to see inside, br the silence thick and just as if br a child had gone and died. br I waited straining for a sound br to interrupt and prove, br This place was too good to be true br and spoil nostalgic mood. br The books that lined the library br were smooth brown leather bound, br and ghostly whispers did I hear, br 'Write something ‘bout this down'. br The names Jack London, Swift, and Yeats br were floating in my head, br if only I could honor them, br but my dull pen is dead, br I'd write a picture of them here br while sitting at these desks, br round spectacled, with slicked back hair br and wearing wool tweed vests. br Had inspiration come to them br as it might come to me, br by looking at the high glassed dome br with icing filigree? br And so with modesty I try br to write a poem that dares, br to capture fancy words like theirs br I know cannot compare.