My Hundred Books

 A thousand books my library
 Contains;
And all are primed, it seems to me
 With brains.
Mine are so few I scratch in thought
 My head;
For just a hundred of the lot
 I've read.

A hundred books, but of the best,
 I can
With wisdom savour and digest
 And scan.
Yet when afar from kin and kith
 In nooks
Of quietness I'm happy with
 Sweet books.

So as nine hundred at me stare
 In vain,
My lack I'm wistfully aware
 Of brain;
Yet as my leave of living ends,
 With looks
Of love I view a hundred friends,
 My books.

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