Robert W. Service Quote
I keep collecting books I know I'll never, never read; My wife and daughter tell me so, And yet I never heed. Please make me, says some wistful tome, A wee bit of yourself.And so I take my treasure home, And tuck it in a shelf. And now my very shelves complain; They jam and over-spill. They say: Why don't you ease our strain? Some day, I say, I will. So book by book they plead and sigh; I pick and dip and scan; Then put them back, distressed that I Am such a busy man. Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne, my Gibbon and Defoe; To savor Swift I'll never learn, Montaigne I may not know. On Bacon I will never sup, For Shakespeare I've no time; Because I'm busy making up These jingly bits of rhyme. Chekov is caviar to me, While Stendhal makes me snore; Poor Proust is not my cup of tea, And Balzac is a bore. I have their books, I love their names, And yet alas! they head, With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James, My Roster of Unread. I think it would be very well If I commit a crime, And get put in a prison cell And not allowed to rhyme; Yet given all these worthy books According to my need, I now caress with loving looks,
I keep collecting books I know I'll never, never read; My wife and daughter tell me so, And yet I never heed. Please make me, says some wistful tome, A wee bit of yourself.And so I take my treasure home, And tuck it in a shelf. And now my very shelves complain; They jam and over-spill. They say: Why don't you ease our strain? Some day, I say, I will. So book by book they plead and sigh; I pick and dip and scan; Then put them back, distressed that I Am such a busy man. Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne, my Gibbon and Defoe; To savor Swift I'll never learn, Montaigne I may not know. On Bacon I will never sup, For Shakespeare I've no time; Because I'm busy making up These jingly bits of rhyme. Chekov is caviar to me, While Stendhal makes me snore; Poor Proust is not my cup of tea, And Balzac is a bore. I have their books, I love their names, And yet alas! they head, With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James, My Roster of Unread. I think it would be very well If I commit a crime, And get put in a prison cell And not allowed to rhyme; Yet given all these worthy books According to my need, I now caress with loving looks,
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