Do you remember the first time you got lost in a book?
Books have always been a gateway to new worlds, ideas, and emotions.
Through these 1o moving poems, we can rekindle our love for books and feel the thrill of reading once again.
Dive into this collection of poems about books and let your passion for reading soar anew!
My favorite poem about books
#1 “A Book” by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!
Dickinson’s poem is my top choice because it eloquently celebrates the unmatched ability of books to take us on incredible adventures.
She compares a book to a frigate, a powerful ship that can carry us to distant lands.
There is truth on this for I remember how books give me a peek on different worlds I can only image, and you never leave that place as the same person anymore.
9 more poems about books
#2 “A Library In A Garden” by Richard Le Gallienne
A world of books amid a world of green,
Sweet song without, sweet song again within
Flowers in the garden, in the folios too:
O happy Bookman, let me live with you!
#3 From “The Poet and his Book” by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Me, by no means dead
In that hour, but surely
When this book, unread,
Rots to earth obscurely,
And no more to any breast,
Close against the clamorous swelling
Of the thing there is no telling,
Are these pages pressed!
When this book is mould,
And a book of many
Waiting to be sold
For a casual penny,
In a little open case,
In a street unclean and cluttered,
Where a heavy mud is spattered
From the passing drays,
Stranger, pause and look;
From the dust of ages
Lift this little book,
Turn the tattered pages,
Read me, do not let me die!
Search the fading letters, finding
Steadfast in the broken binding
All that once was I!
#4 “The Bible” by Nora Pembroke
The book of life to thee is given,
To warn of death, to guide to Heaven.
Wanderer on the wild astray,
Here wilt thou find the King’s highway.
Has thy soul suffered, hunger, pain,
Trying to feed on husks in vain?
Here thou wilt find the palace fair,
Where there is bread enough to spare
Thou’lt find where living waters roll,
To satisfy the fainting soul.
Thou hast been thirsty, very sore,
Here come and drink and thirst no more,
Thou’lt find the pearl of greatest price
Hid in the Master’s promises.
And so this book to thee is given
To warn of hell, to guide to Heaven.
#5 “My Books” by Richard Le Gallienne
What are my books? – My friends, my loves,
My church, my tavern, and my only wealth;
My garden: yea, my flowers, my bees, my doves;
My only doctors – and my only health.
#6 “In Her Diary” by Richard Le Gallienne
Go, little book, and be the looking-glass
Of her dear soul,
The mirror of her moments as they pass,
Keeping the whole;
Wherein she still may look on yesterday
To-day to cheer,
And towards To-morrow pass upon her way
Without a fear.
For yesterday hath never won a crown,
However fair,
But that To-day a better for its own
Might win and wear;
And yesterday hath never joyed a joy,
However sweet,
That this To-day or that To-morrow too
May not repeat.
Think too, To-day is trustee for to-morrow,
And present pain
That’s bravely borne shall ease the future sorrow
Nor cry in vain
‘Spare us To-day, To-morrow bring the rod,’
For then again
To-morrow from To-morrow still shall borrow,
A little ease to gain:
But bear to-day whate’er To-day may bring,
‘Tis the one way to make To-morrow sing.
#7 “The Book” by John Greenleaf Whittier
Gallery of sacred pictures manifold,
A minster rich in holy effigies,
And bearing on entablature and frieze
The hieroglyphic oracles of old.
Along its transept aureoled martyrs sit;
And the low chancel side-lights half acquaint
The eye with shrines of prophet, bard, and saint,
Their age-dimmed tablets traced in doubtful writ!
But only when on form and word obscure
Falls from above the white supernal light
We read the mystic characters aright,
And life informs the silent portraiture,
Until we pause at last, awe-held, before
The One ineffable Face, love, wonder, and adore
#8 “The Book Of Life” by Arthur Macy
Whoso his book of life doth con
From title-leaf to colophon
May read, if he but wrongly look,
Some sorry pages in his book.
But if he read aright each line,
Interpreting the scheme divine,
‘Twill be most fair to look upon
From title-leaf to colophon.
#9 “The Book” by William Drummond
Of this fair volume which we World do name
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
Of Him who it corrects and did it frame,
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:
Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,
His providence extending everywhere,
His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,
In every page, no period of the same.
But silly we, like foolish children, rest
Well pleased with coloured vellum, leaves of gold,
Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,
On the great Writer’s sense ne’er taking hold;
Or, if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
It is some picture on the margin wrought.
#10 “Written In The First Leaf Of A Child’s Memorandum Book” by Charles & Mary Lamb
My neat and pretty book, when I thy small lines see,
They seem for any use to be unfit for me:
My writing, all misshaped, uneven as my mind,
Within this narrow space can hardly be confined.
Yet I will strive to make my hand less awkward look;
I would not willingly disgrace thee, my neat book!
The finest pens I’ll use, and wondrous pains I’ll take,
And I these perfect lines my monitors will make.
And every day I will set down in order due
How that day wasted is; and should there be a few
At the year’s end that show more goodly to the sight,
If haply here I find some days not wasted quite,
If a small portion of them I have pass’d aright,
Then shall I think the year not wholly was misspent,
And that my Diary has been by some good angel sent.