| |
| IGNORANCE came in stones of gold; | |
| The ignorant slept while the hangmen | |
| Hanged the keepers of the lights | |
| Of sweet stars: such were the apothegms, | |
| Offhand offerings of mule-drivers | 5 |
| Eating sandwiches of rye bread, | |
| Salami and onions. | |
| |
| “Too Many Books,” we always called him; | |
| A landscape of masterpieces and old favorites | |
| Fished with their titles for his eyes | 10 |
| In the upstairs and downstairs rooms | |
| Of his house. Whenever he passed | |
| The old-time bar-room where Pete Morehouse | |
| Shot the chief of police, where | |
| The sponge squads shot two bootleggers, | 15 |
| He always remembered the verse story, | |
| The Face on the Bar-room Floor— | |
| The tramp on a winter night, | |
| Saddened and warmed with whiskey, | |
| Telling of a woman he wanted | 20 |
| And a woman who wanted him, | |
| How whiskey wrecked it all; | |
| Taking a piece of chalk, | |
| Picturing her face on the bar-room floor, | |
| Fixing the lines of her face | 25 |
| While he told the story, | |
| Then gasping and falling with finished heartbeats, | |
| Dead. | |
| |
| And whenever he passed over the bridge at night | |
| And took the look up the river to smaller bridges, | 30 |
| Barge lights, and looming shores, | |
| He always thought of Edgar Allan Poe, | |
| With a load of hootch in him, | |
| Going to a party of respectable people | |
| Who called for a speech, | 35 |
| Who listened to Poe recite the Lord’s Prayer, | |
| Correctly, word for word, yet with lush, unmistakable | |
| Intonations, so haunting the dinner-party people | |
| All excused themselves to each other. | |
| |
| Whenever Too Many Books | 40 |
| Passed over the town bridge in the gloaming, | |
| He thought of Poe breaking up that party | |
| Of respectable people. Such was Too Many Books— | |
| We called him that. | |
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