EX LIBRIS
His books do, without doubt, furnish her room,
and she is grateful, as she always was
- or tried to be - for words bestowed because
of duty and so slightly foxed by gloom.
The pages of his life were rarely filled,
safe margins trapped a joyless, cautious tale,
his chapters structured so he should not fail,
effecting each small climax as he willed.
She could not read him then; now she suspects
the covers hide less even than she thought:
gold titles and calf binding, dearly bought,
enrich and supplement the leanest texts.
