To My Books

YOU, you have given me my noblest pleasures,
How many times my lips have kissed you, when
I closed you, my dear books.

 

In you they sleep, frail seeds,
Ready to burst to life again,
The thrills of days departed.

 

Yes! more than my parents, much more than my masters,
More than all those I loved,
You taught me how to see the world.

 

Had it not been for you, I should have lived
Sensible only to the things men do.
Without you, I had been a poor barbarian,
Blind as a little child.

 

You have dilated all my powers of loving,
Sharpened my sadness, trained my doubt.
By you, I am no more the being of one moment.

 

And now, now I must take you
Into the secretest room of all the house,
And now with great seals I must seal your door;
For I will be as though you had not been.

 

O yes, you books of the past, now I must hide you;
For I should die cooped at your side.
For you would trouble the eyes you opened wide,
And I should feel you between me and things.

 

Now I must flee you, like a passioned mother
Who has given her son the suck of all her breast,
And who, in fear that some day he should cease to be her double,
Clings to him, crushing him to her violent heart.

 

Books, set me free! I am going away to life,
With open arms, bright eyes, and heart all new.
My senses, ardent sons of yours, shall be my only masters.
You shall be outside of me, I will disown you.
Sleep, jealous brothers, in your sombre chamber mewed;
I go, without regret, without one tear;
I go made young by my ingratitude,
Vibrating, like a virgin, gladsome as a god.