Mhall46184@aol.com
A New Commonplace Book
Some
say this book is blank, but ‘tis not so:
The
pages speak unwritten, and in themAre hidden the adventures of the mind,
And needing only there the gentle push
Of ink-charged nib to wand the words alight
Upon, across, within the rich leaves sewn,
Sewn each to each and to a spine for store;
The wanderings of one’s life, one’s soul, one’s art
Stored up on sorted pages in their leaves,
Embellished with, perhaps, depictions drawn,
Carved freely from the hand, or cuttings set
In neatness and in order regular
Or something thus of both, with letters clear
About, among, around the ideas here.
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