too precious to keep, too tough to destroy

In convents and crypts, in kists and coffins, 

tiny illuminations; 

in private collections chained and padlocked 

or dusty, oak-panelled institutions 

where sunlight canticles on a spine, 

a gold-leafed title: The Golden Bough; 

or moonlight charms the pallor of 

a forgotten Woman in White; 

or a girl from the country slits apart 

a thick, warm page of cavorting Sanskrit; 

or on paper as thin as a butterfly wing 

holds a pocketbook of proverbs. 

 

Books, too precious to keep, 

too tough to destroy, too 

dangerous to trust, too 

charged with truth, too 

silent in face of violence, too 

volatile for the screen, books 

are thoughts in transit, they gather 

as they go more and more rolling beauty. 

Who knows who shall know? 

Whom will the finger touch? 

 

[Tessa Ransford {1938-2015} "Seven" from 'In Praise of Libraries' in Books and Libraries {Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets}]