My Books


    Sadly as some old mediaeval knight
        Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield,
        The sword two-handed and the shining shield
        Suspended in the hall, and full in sight,
    While secret longings for the lost delight
        Of tourney or adventure in the field
        Came over him, and tears but half concealed
        Trembled and fell upon his beard of white,
    So I behold these books upon their shelf,
        My ornaments and arms of other days;
        Not wholly useless, though no longer used,
    For they remind me of my other self,
        Younger and stronger, and the pleasant ways
        In which I walked, now clouded and confused.


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It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.