How fortunate are we to live in times
When libraries exist most everywhere,
Which burst with novels, research, art, and rhymes,
And we can call upon them through the air.
And still, the tactile pleasures of a book
Remain when from a screen your eyeballs sting
And you desire a solitary nook
In which to focus on a single thing.
For when absorbed in reading, one arrives
At space the writer once willed into being,
So even when he dies, a part survives-
An immortality thus guaranteeing.
So seize that part and read it when you may-
Not even death can seal that entryway.