Unto My Books So Good To Turn By Emily Dickinson

    Unto my books so good to turn
    Far ends of tired days;
    It half endears the abstinence,
    And pain is missed in praise.

    As flavors cheer retarded guests
    With banquetings to be,
    So spices stimulate the time
    Till my small library.

    It may be wilderness without,
    Far feet of failing men,
    But holiday excludes the night,
    And it is bells within.

    I thank these kinsmen of the shelf;
    Their countenances bland
    Enamour in prospective,
    And satisfy, obtained.