W. E. Henley.
MY BOOKS.
These are my books-a Burton old,
A Lamb arrayed against the cold
In polished dress of red and blue,
A rare old Elzevir or two,
And Johnson clothed in green and gold.
A Pope in gilded calf I sold,
To buy a Sterne of worth untold,
To cry, as bibliomaniacs do,
"These are my books!"
What though a Fate unkind hath doled
But favours few to me, yet bold
My little wealth abroad I strew,
To purchase acquisitions new,
And say by love of them controlled,
These are my books.
Nathan M. Levy.
MOST SWEET OF ALL.
Most sweet of all the flowers memorial
That autumn tends beneath his wasted trees,
Where wearily the unremembering breeze
Whirls the brown leaves against the blackening wall
More sweet than those that summer fed so tall
And glad with soft wind blowing overseas;
Through all incalculable distances
Of many shades that swerve and sands that crawl,
Most sweet of all!
When comes the fulness of the time to me
As yours is full to-day, O flower of mine?
Touched by her hand who evermore shall be,
While the slow planets circle for a sign,
Till periods flag and constellations fall,
Most sweet of all!