The Icelandic Canadian - 01.03.1974, Side 46

44
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
SPRING 1974
by Gus Sigurdson
How well I do remember as a child
The fascination that a book compiled
When first my mother’s tongue I learned to read —
And later how the English books became
Enchanted with this feeling, much the same;
Opening worlds wide of beauty and wonder,
Of daring deeds, adventure, blood and thunder.
I thrilled with poets on the printed page
Of many nations—Guideposts of our age—
Blazing their inner fires and casting light
Into the dim dark dungeons of the night;
Or painting in glowing colors the faces of flowers
Who smile in be-jeweled beauty after showers
Towards, the God-like gleaming sun above,
Like babes who dry their tears on mother love.
All these and many other things I found.
In fact, most every thought of man is bound
Somewhere within the pages of a book.
Search and you shall find, if but you look.
Every subject, every work of art,
Every human feeling plays a part
Upon the pages of the books we read —
All bonds are severed, every slave is freed.