Books are the ever burning lamps of accumulated wisdom.
The stars that nature hung in heaven and filled their lamps with everlasting oil give due light to the misled and lonely traveller.
As we moved along in a little procession I was delighted with the illumination of the streets. So many lamps and they burned until morning my father said and so people did not need to carry lanterns.
I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry that is prose = words in their best order - poetry = the best words in the best order.