The poem
A thousand books my library Contains; And all are primed, it seems to me With brains. Mine are so few I scratch in thought My head; For just a hundred of the lot I've read.
A hundred books, but of the best, I can With wisdom savour and digest And scan. Yet when afar from kin and kith In nooks Of quietness I'm happy with Sweet books.
So as nine hundred at me stare In vain, My lack I'm wistfully aware Of brain; Yet as my leave of living ends, With looks Of love I view a hundred friends, My books.