We trod uncomfortably on crunching glass Through a house stripped of everything Except, it seemed, the poetess’s poems. Books, I should say!—if books are what is needed. A whole edition in a packing-case, That, overflowing like a horn of plenty, Or like the poetess’s heart of love, Had spilled them near the window toward the light, Where driven rain had wet and swollen them. Enough to stock a village library— Unfortunately all of one kind, though. They had been brought home from some publisher And taken thus into the family. Boys and bad hunters had known what to do With stone and lead to unprotected glass: Shatter it inward on the unswept floors. How had the tender verse escaped their outrage? By being invisible for what it was, Or else by some remoteness that defied them To find out what to do to hurt a poem. Yet oh! the tempting flatness of a book, To send it sailing out the attic window Till it caught the wind, and, opening out its covers, Tried to improve on sailing like a tile By flying like a bird (silent in flight, But all the burden of its body song), Only to tumble like a stricken bird, And lie in stones and bushes unretrieved. Books were not thrown irreverently about. They simply lay where some one now and then, Having tried one, had dropped it at his feet And left it lying where it fell rejected. Here were all those the poetess’s life Had been too short to sell or give away. “Take one,” Old Davis bade me graciously. “Why not take two or three?” “Take all you want. Good-looking books like that.” He picked one fresh In virgin wrapper from deep in the box, And stroked it with a horny-handed kindness. He read in one and I read in another, Both either looking for or finding something. The attic wasps went missing by like bullets. I was soon satisfied for the time being. All the way home I kept remembering The small book in my pocket. It was there. The poetess had sighed, I knew, in heaven At having eased her heart of one more copy— Legitimately. My demand upon her, Though slight, was a demand. She felt the tug. In time she would be rid of all her books. I WILL SING YOU ONE-O It was long I lay Awake that night Wishing the tower Would name the hour And tell me whether To call it day (Though not yet light) And give up sleep. The snow fell deep With the hiss of spray; Two winds would meet, One down one street, One down another, And fight in a smother Of dust and feather. I could not say, But feared the cold Had checked the pace Of the tower clock By tying together Its hands of gold Before its face.