THROUGH LIBRARY WINDOWS 79 



blended into the fullness and symmetry of a 

 glowing life. 



The presence in one's own library of books 

 long known and highly esteemed, but not yet 

 read, or, only partially so, affords a peculiar 

 sensation of stored comfort — like a generous 

 balance in one's bank account. A bookcase 

 containing nothing unexplored would be like a 

 garden in winter without its spring bulbs. The 

 books we have read and love are planted there 

 like fruit trees out of bearing, with a hidden 

 promise of spring blossoming but the uncut 

 leaves of our new possessions fold in their 

 treasures as the scaly coat of a new lily root 

 hides all the possibilities of stem and leaf and 

 radiant flower. 



We fondly impute immortality to books. 

 Few books have the power of an endless life. 

 The great multitude of books are books of use 

 which perish with the using. The vast mass, 

 like the thoughts in our daily lives, sink into the 

 background and furnish the soil from which 

 fresh growths spring. There are but few 

 books of power. Among them the great Poets 

 take rank, they are seers always of the better 

 things, high-priests forever after the order of 

 humanity, whose messages of flame burn on 

 from age to age, consuming and unconsumed. 



