Just a Journeyman Binder of Books Working from town to town A craftsman old, of an ancient guild With graying hair and wrinkled frown. He binds the books in leather and cloth, Tools them in letters of gold Some printed thoughts that come to naught, Others of priceless mould. Once in a while he’ll glance inside And note what lies within Gleaning a little from such aside Of wisdom, knowledge, and sin. Sage and philosopher, braggart and knave Spill out their thoughts in a wordy pool, ...
