Once, as I searched the leaning
shelves, browsing, as in casual
manner oft I used to do, but of
late let fall, left caught in the
dreamish dust of the wayside,
In the net of things forgotten,
after the like of the windward
spirit, I came across a faded
cover, full venerable, (worn
with youths withdrawal), but set
far back amidst its fellows,
hidden in the quenching shadows,
Of those great tomes of learned
Word, graph and ledger, prosaic
Illustration.

Intrigued so, I let the winsome
Curiosity have its way, and pried
apart the green and dusted sheath,
and looked inside, so as to make
certain whether or no, I should
know, or leave unknown. Leafing
through those tattered pages,
thin and yellowed, words faint,
beneath the grime of years and
care, it came to my mind in wonder
how many, as myself, must have
come, in ignorance perhaps, or
error to these pages once
pristine, and in reading become
caught, swept away in frenzied
passion, tearing, tearing, tearing
away, mad in the arms of
Felt and feeling feel and
knowledge, in the hope it will
Turn, transmuted in glorious
Ecstasy, into at last the long
Sought respite, peace at last,
Within the still transparent
Pool of Truth, Enlightenment.

In vain? Perhaps.