The Chrysalis Of A Bookworm.

I read, O friend, no pages of old lore, Which I loved well, and yet the wingèd days, That softly passed as wind through green spring ways And left a perfume, swift fly as of yore, Though in clear Plato's stream I look no more, Neither with Moschus sing Sicilian lays. Nor with bold Dante wander in amaze, Nor see our Will the Golden Age restore. I read a book to which old books are new, And new books old. A living book is mine— In age, two years: in it I read no lies— In it to myriad truths I find the clew— A tender, little child; but I divine Thoughts high as Dante's in its clear blue eyes.