Gazing out the window of my big workroom filled with old books,
with that alert, satisfied, otherworldly expression indicative
of his four grand years, my grandson said,
mostly to himself but partly to me,
This room smells like Grandpa.
To his left, forty volumes of 1901 Dumas;
to his right, 1890s Emerson and Goethe;
behind him, a rare ten-volume Tennyson.
And that is only the beginning.
In each direction, and at every point between,
waits aromatic adventure:
the novels of Waverley;
the Arabian Nights entertainments;
the letters of Madame de Sévigné;
the reliques of ancient poetry.
A man could lose his mind in here,
and daily does, blow off the dust,
and still smell like Grandpa.
(to my right, Byron; to my left, Swift; to my joy, this glorious if...)