The child came to the dark library,
Afraid. Feeling the darkness of the men
Sitting so silently—not reading—
On the tilted chairs.

The steps to go in were loaded with darkness.
Men stood hinged on their heavy arms.
A smell of cloth-pudding boiling on a winter day—
The child knew this smell
Damp caps over embittered minds, they smell the same.
Men's gear stricken, like the ancient smoke
Above the table. No one was smoking,
Yet there it hung.

Then the lame man stumped with his keys,
Opening cases,
Muttering. What was a child doing here,
Among darkened men? Wanting locked books?
The child snatched and fled

While the books bloomed in a fire between the covers,
Waiting to burst for her—Saturday's great new rose.
The men lolled silent, holding their empty hands
On their dark knees. She was afraid.
Yet above fear, she wanted their books
That they did not read.

What the dark men wanted
She was too young and well cared for to understand.

The child came to the dark library,
Afraid. Feeling the darkness of the men
Sitting so silently—not reading—
On the tilted chairs.

The steps to go in were loaded with darkness.
Men stood hinged on their heavy arms.
A smell of cloth-pudding boiling on a winter day—
The child knew this smell
Damp caps over embittered minds, they smell the same.
Men's gear stricken, like the ancient smoke
Above the table. No one was smoking,
Yet there it hung.

Then the lame man stumped with his keys,
Opening cases,
Muttering. What was a child doing here,
Among darkened men? Wanting locked books?
The child snatched and fled

While the books bloomed in a fire between the covers,
Waiting to burst for her—Saturday's great new rose.
The men lolled silent, holding their empty hands
On their dark knees. She was afraid.
Yet above fear, she wanted their books
That they did not read.

What the dark men wanted
She was too young and well cared for to understand.