By Eugene Field D EAR wife, last midnight, whilst I read The tomes you so despise, A spectre rose beside the bed, And spake in this true wise: I bade him welcome, and we twain Discussed with buoyant hearts The various things that appertain To bibliomaniac arts. Pray tell me of that host There are no auctions to molest, No creditors to dun. Their heavenly rapture has no bounds Beside that jasper sea; Much I rejoiced to hear him speak Of biblio-bliss above, For I am one of those who seek What bibliomaniacs love. What doth concern me most, That they our heavenly joy should share Who vex us here below. The few are those who have been kind To husbands such as we; When we would read in bed? Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss If we buy books instead? Which leads where torments roll, And worms, yes, bookworms, vent their wrath Upon the guilty soul. Untouched of bibliomaniac grace, That saveth such as we, For we together by and by Would join that heavenly host; Echoes from the Sabine Farm TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA O FOUNTAIN of Bandusia! | |
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