There are doorways ornamental,
Plain, of metal, glass and wood;
Some are swinging, double, single,
Or revolving, and you could,
If you wished, see other sliding—
But whatever kind you see,
Don't forget that there are doorways
Which are called "imaginary." Through imaginary doorways
Young and old, both poor and rich,
Pass at will into the pleasures
Of the varied paths on which
Some pursue increase of knowledge,
Others scale romantic heights,
Or delight in joys of wandering
With the fairies, elves, and sprites. Many join in wild adventures
O'er the seas in foreign climes,
Or enjoy the murky business
Of elucidating crimes.
Satisfaction, deep and peaceful,
Comes to those who stroll along
In the shade of leafy woodlands
Which resound to Nature's song. These imaginary doorways
Are not closed by lock and key:
One may open them at all times
And pass through in ecstasy.
There are short, tall, thin, and stout ones,
Plain or handsome in their looks;
Sometimes gay or drab in colour,
And these doorways are—our books.