I Should Not Dare To Call My

Books, Books, Books! I Had Found The Secret Of A Garret Room Piled High With Cases In My Father’s Name; Piled High, Packed Large,--where, Creeping In And Out Among The Giant Fossils Of My Past, Like Some Small Nimble Mouse Between The Ribs Of A Mastodon, I Nibbled Here And There At This Or That Box, Pulling Through The Gap, In Heats Of Terror, Haste, Victorious Joy, The First Book First. And How I Felt It Beat Under My Pillow, In The Morning’s Dark, An Hour Before The Sun Would Let Me Read! My Books!

Eve Is A Twofold Mystery.

Light Tomorrow With Today!

What Is Art But The Life Upon The Larger Scale, The Higher. When, Graduating Up In A Spiral Line Of Still Expanding And Ascending Gyres, It Pushes Toward The Intense Significance Of All Things, Hungry For The Infinite?

First Time He Kissed Me, He But Only Kissed The Fingers Of This Hand Wherewith I Write; And, Ever Since, It Grew More Clean And White.