Whose books are these, I think I know.
She studies in the sem rooms, though.
She will not mind me stopping here
to watch the library slowly close.

The librarians must think it queer
to stop without a classmate near:
Stopped without a path to take,
just fall semester of the year.

The silence echoes, quiver quake;
the last pack up with stretch and ache.
the only other sound’s the sweep
of paper-pile and backpack-shake.

The stacks are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
and hours to go before I sleep,
and hours to go before I sleep.

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