 | The Poems of Sir William Watson |  |
117
TO A YOUNG AMERICAN LADY
WHO HAD WRITTEN TO ASK ME FOR MY BOOKPLATE
Bookplate? I never had one. And my shelvesCarry 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.
| The Poems of Sir William Watson | |