where you'll find me-reading

.

When this book, unread,

Rots to earth obscurely,

And no more to any breast,

Close against the clamorous swelling

Of the thing there is no telling,

Are these pages pressed!

When this book is mould,

And a book of many

Waiting to be sold

For a casual penny,

In a little open case,

In a street unclean and cluttered,

Where a heavy mud is spattered

From the passing drays,
Stranger, pause and look;

From the dust of ages

Lift this little book,

Read me, do not let me die!

Search the fading letters, finding

Steadfast in the broken binding

All that once was I!

poem excerpt from Edna Saint Vincent Millay's The Poet and His Book

.