Three Books Re-Read

‘ AT a certain village in La Mancha . . . ’ So
The tale began. I paused and raised my head,
Hearing a soundless voice that seemed to flow
Out of mid-morning peace. ‘My friend,’ it said,
‘ Do you remember your unhappiness
Some years ago? You paid too great a price
For what you gained from life, and less and less
Content you were. You begged me for advice.
You said you wanted leisure, time to dream,
To think, to read for days when so inclined;
Or, stretched in leafy shade beside a stream,
To loaf as long as ever you had the mind.
How to obtain this leisure was the question
You posed to me; and this was my suggestion:

‘First, that you store up, without stint or measure,
Wealth that WAS yours; that compassed you about.
So blind you were, you could not see the treasure
You had in things that you could do without.
Once you began, came freedom and heart’s-ease;
You found yourself a king in your own right.
Choosing then the books you loved, with these
Under your arm, you vanished from my sight.
And here I find you, still my counsel heeding.
Tell me, have you some unfulfilled desire?’
‘One,’ I replied; ‘for the first time to be reading
This tale of Don Quixote and his squire.’

‘God bless my soul!’ the soundless voice replied;
‘Some men, it seems, are never satisfied!'

Once, when I had traveled a lonely way
Through thickly settled country, bleak and bare
And comfortless, and no one seemed to care
How desolate it was — how grim, how gray;
Seeking shelter toward the close of day,
Suddenly I spied a garden, where
No garden should have been. I stopped to stare,
Not knowing what to do, or think, or say.

High-walled it was, and secret, but a door
Stood open . . . invitation manifest
For someone . . . whom? Perhaps, I thought, for me;
And so I entered, tired and spirit-sore.
There was I welcomed like an honored guest
By one who is all I could wish to be.

No shock it was to see a misty queerness
Gathering about an empty chair;
I had a premonition of his nearness,
And, looking up again, I found him there.
We talked at ease, without the least constraint,
Of Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Hazlitt, Hunt;
And when I asked of Manning, with a faint
Twinkle, he said: ‘Still punning ... in a punt
Along the Styx; he rarely comes ashore.’
‘Always alone?’ I ventured to inquire.
‘Not always, I admit.’ . . . ‘Lamb, tell me more
(It is n’t late) about your friend, George Dyer.’

The words were like a bellows to a forge,
And till the dawn of day the theme was George.