Much I rejoiced to hear him speak
    Of biblio-bliss above,
  For I am one of those who seek
    What bibliomaniacs love;
  “But tell me—­for I long to hear
    What doth concern me most—­
  Are wives admitted to that sphere?”
    Says I to Dibdin’s ghost.

  “The women folk are few up there,
    For ’twere not fair you know
  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—­
  They knew our fads, and didn’t mind,”
    Says Dibdin’s ghost to me.

  “But what of those who scold at us
    When we would read in bed? 
  Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss
    If we buy books, instead? 
  And what of those who’ve dusted not
    Our motley pride and boast? 
  Shall they profane that sacred spot?”
    Says I to Dibdin’s ghost.

  “Oh, no! they tread that other path
    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,
  They wallow in that dreadful place!”
    Says Dibdin’s ghost to me.

  “To my dear wife will I recite
    What things I’ve heard you say;
  She’ll let me read the books by night
    She’s let me buy by day;
  For we, together, by and by,
    Would join that heavenly host—­
  She’s earned a rest as well as I!”
    Says I to Dibdin’s ghost.

AN AUTUMN TREASURE-TROVE.

  ’Tis the time of the year’s sundown, and flame
    Hangs on the maple bough;
  And June is the faded flower of a name;
    The thin hedge hides not a singer now. 
  Yet rich am I; for my treasures be
    The gold afloat in my willow-tree.

  Sweet morn on the hillside dripping with dew,
    Girded with blue and pearl,
  Counts the leaves afloat in the streamlet too;
    As the love-lorn heart of a wistful girl,
  She sings while her soul brooding tearfully
  Sees a dream of gold in the willow-tree.

  All day pure white and saffron at eve,
    Clouds awaiting the sun
  Turn them at length to ghosts that leave
    When the moon’s white path is slowly run
  Till the morning comes, and with joy for me
  O’er my gold agleam in the willow-tree.

  The lilacs that blew on the breast of May
    Are an old and lost delight;
  And the rose lies ruined in his careless way
    As the wind turns the poplars underwhite,
  Yet richer am I for the autumn; see
  All my misty gold in the willow-tree.

WHEN THE POET CAME.

  The ferny places gleam at morn,
  The dew drips off the leaves of corn;
  Along the brook a mist of white
  Fades as a kiss on lips of light;
  For, lo! the poet with his pipe
  Finds all these melodies are ripe!