Poetry Archives

The women-folk are like to books,—
  Most pleasing to the eye,
Whereon if anybody looks
  He feels disposed to buy.

I hear that many are for sale,—
  Those that record no dates,
And such editions as regale
  The view with colored plates.

Of every quality and grade
  And size they may be found,—
Quite often beautifully made,
  As often poorly bound.

Now, as for me, had I my choice,
  I’d choose no folio tall,
But some octavo to rejoice
  My sight and heart withal,—

As plump and pudgy as a snipe;
  Well worth her weight in gold;
Of honest, clean, conspicuous type,
  And just the size to hold!

With such a volume for my wife
  How should I keep and con!
How like a dream should run my life
  Unto its colophon!

Her frontispiece should be more fair
  Than any colored plate;
Blooming with health, she would not care
  To extra-illustrate.

And in her pages there should be
  A wealth of prose and verse,
With now and then a jeu d’esprit,—
  But nothing ever worse!

Prose for me when I wished for prose,
  Verse when to verse inclined,—
Forever bringing sweet repose
  To body, heart, and mind.

Oh, I should bind this priceless prize
  In bindings full and fine,
And keep her where no human eyes
  Should see her charms, but mine!

With such a fair unique as this
  What happiness abounds!
Who—who could paint my rapturous bliss,
  My joy unknown to Lowndes!