In torrid heats of late July,
In search, beneath the bitter bise,
He book-hunts whiles the loungers fly-
He book-hunts, through December freeze;
In breeches baggy at the knees,
And heedless of the public jeers,
For these, for these, he hoards his fees-
Aldines, Bodinis, Elzevirs.
Photographs by verticalspace
love the poem, and even more love the beauiful photographs!
If you ever visit America you MUST go to the Book Mill, a 19th century mill on a river in the woods, with sky high windows and mountains of books!
The Book Mill. Someday.
Magnificent eyes you have, thank you.
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