His book, but not his only book.

What yesterday was it I took

One of the hundred hundreds down

From shelves of gold, of red, of brown,

To read a tale that I heard told

Too long ago to call it old?

I found another, a third, a fourth,

Till at my feet east, west, and north

The books I thus undomiciled

Lay open upside down or piled.

So gardens of the mind may bloom,

Great riches in a little room.

I must have stopped, I know not when,

But knew myself most blest of men.

And will again. And. will again.