A Volume of Villon

(French fifteenth century poet)

Green leather binding, centuries old,

Covers are beveled. Spine’s rubbed.
The fore-edge is gilt. Fleur-de-lis cannot wilt
In this garden embossed with gold.

Books are enduring. Precious delights,

Outlasting their authors in life.
This poet was poor—a drunkard, a boor,
And his grave paid no royalty rights.