by William Jackson on 2004-05-20
The library is quiet in the morn,
As quiet as the death all men must take.
The lack of students makes me feel forlorn,
Resembling silent field and frozen lake.
Before too long the noisy door swings wide:
With chilling draft a student passes through.
A pause; another student comes inside,
Then finally, a third steps into view.
All hustle-bustle has this floor become!
These students do not speak with lowered voice!
They act as if they call this place their home,
And loudly claim they have no other choice.
Oh, give me back my silent library!
I loved her, boring as she seemed to be.