The Land of Story-books

At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter's camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.

So when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Story-books.
--Robert Louis Stevenson

Invitation Accepted

She stands by me,
this child of three,
Holding out
a picture book;
Her eyes in upward,
pleading look.

I think of pressing
tasks today,
Of waiting things
of near demand,
Yet swiftly reach
for her small hand,
And go with her
to Fairyland.

--Katherine Edelman

Books Fall Open

Books fall open,
you fall in,
delighted where
you've never been;
hear voices not once
heard before,
reach world on world
through door on door;
find unexpected
keys to things
locked up beyond
imaginings.
What might you be,
perhaps become,
because one book
is somewhere? Some
wise delver into
wisdom, wit;
and wherewithal
has written it.
True books will venture,
dare you out,
whisper secrets,
maybe shout
across the gloom
to you in need,
who hanker for
a book to read.
-David McCord

When Mother Reads Aloud

When Mother reads aloud,

the past seems real as every day;
I hear the tramp of armies vast,
I see the spears and lances cast,
I join the thrilling fray.
Brave knights and ladies fair and proud I meet
when Mother reads aloud.

When Mother reads aloud,
far lands seem very near and true;
I cross the deserts gleaming sands,
or hunt the jungles prowling bands,
or sail the ocean blue.
Far heights, whose peaks the cold mists shroud, I scale,
When Mother reads aloud.

When Mother reads aloud,
I long for noble deeds to do-
to help the right,
redress the wrong;
it seems so easy to be strong,
so simple to be true.
Oh, thick and fast the visions crowd my eyes,
When Mother reads aloud.

-Author Unknown