My Books

They dweil in the odor of cnmphor, They stand in ft Sheraton shrine. They aro "warranted eariy editions," These woirshipful tomos oí niiuo. ■ In their creamy "Oxford veüum," In their redolent 'torushed Levant," VVith tluii' delioete walered linings, They are jewels of price, I grant. Blind tooled and Morocco jointed, They have Zaehndorf 's d&intiest dres Tüey are craceful, attonuato, polislied, But they fratlier the dust no loss. For the row that 1 prizo is yonder, Away on the unglazed stielves. The bulged and bruised octavos, The doar and duniptsy twelves. Montaigne, with his sheepskin tlistered, And Howell the worse tor wear. And the worm drüled Jesuit's Horace, And the littla oíd cropped Moliere, And the Burton I bonght for a florín. And the Rabelals, foxed and flea'd, For the others I nover have opened, But these are the books I read.