.
It is a rather large and dusty library. Books of every shape and size are lined up neats rows in a colorful myriad, stacked in large piles and slumped carelessly on the floor. Hard oak book cases all but form a maze, barriers which line the room and fill up a great deal of its contents. A miscellany of foreign objects are clattered on top of the shorter ones, some of which rest comfortably beneath a far window etched from stained glass, throwing sheafs of light into the solemnity and darkness of the place. Next to the window windchimes wave comfortably in the breeze, their gentle notes unforced and naught but a pleasant background noise. They fill you with a sense of strength and comfort ...
Overall the earth beneath your feet are wood floors with ornate carpeting, and nearby there is a comfortable looking chair and a table to curl up with a good book. There is a fireplace where one might rest on a cold afternoon and almost picture-perfect scene of the sunlight's sheafs of gold dust and the quaint and almost magical charm of the place. All is perfect, in comfortable hues both familiar and strange, dashes of color is what is all red and brown and light-dappled darkness.
Both dust and knowledge gather here. Amidst the books much is to be found.
Or a similiar bit of poetic nonsense.