To a Young American Lady

Bookplate ? I never had one. And my shelves
Carry no monstrous burden of books themselves.
Into a book called Life I oftener dip,
But even there I find a deal to skip:
Parts without glow—lack-lustre passages—
Its myriad soulless leaves—and round all these
The nightmare riddle of its authorship.
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.