British Library I

This is actually the Library of Congress. I couldn’t find any free pictures of the old British Library.

I used to love the British Library.

I used to make the pilgrimage there

Every week or so, researching my books.

In through the main entrance of the British Museum,

Ignoring all the mummies and sphinxes,

Straight on to the small subfusc door,

To dim wooden corridors laden with books,

Through the maze to the Reading Room.

There I searched through the huge catalogues

In rings of wooden shelves around the Desk,

The blue volumes with entries glued in, print

Or sometimes handwritten in stately

Blue-black copperplate,

Then ordering in triplicate on slips

Which went into tubes to be hurried along

Pneumatically, and eventually would bring

The books I wanted, carried by a grave Priestess

Of the Library, with a trolley.

And I would sit at one of the generous desks,

With books ordered earlier.