Open The Book. (the Gilt Rubs Off

Topography Displays No Favorites; North's As Near As West. More Delicate Than The Historians' Are The Map-makers' Colors.

There Are Some People Whom We Envy Not Because They Are Rich Or Handsome Or Successful, Although They May Be All Or Any Of These, But Because Everything They Are Or Do Seems To Be All Of A Piece, So That Even If They Wanted To They Could Not Be Or Do Otherwise.

Open The Book. (the Gilt Rubs Off The Edges Of The Pages And Pollinates The Fingertips.)

I Am In Need Of Music That Would Flow Over My Fretful, Feeling Finger-tips, Over My Bitter-tainted, Trembling Lips, With Melody, Deep, Clear, And Liquid-slow. Oh, For The Healing Swaying, Old And Low, Of Some Song Sung To Rest The Tired Dead, A Song To Fall Like Water On My Head, And Over Quivering Limbs, Dream Flushed To Glow! There Is A Magic Made By Melody: A Spell Of Rest, And Quiet Breath, And Cool Heart, That Sinks Through Fading Colors Deep To The Subaqueous Stillness Of The Sea, And Floats Forever In A Moon-green Pool, Held In The Arms Of Rhythm And Of Sleep.

If After I Read A Poem The World Looks Like That Poem For 24 Hours Or So I'm Sure It's A Good One—and The Same Goes For Paintings.