The Dying Sun

The night has a thousand eyes;

and the day but one.

~Francis William Bourdillon ~

So, last year my local library (yes, they still exist) was having an enormous book sale.
They had books there from every genre of the craft.  They had novels that were so heavy it took two hands to hold them; they had art books that were as long as the table they sat upon; there were teeny, tiny novellas on the art of table setting, manuals on mechanics, and pamphlets on crime-watch. There were loads of deserted encyclopedias from years past; once-upon-a-time best-sellers that hadn't aged well at all ; and way too many romance novels for such a small town.  But among the rubble I was able to scrounge a couple of books that sought out my attention.

Now, I'm talking books for a quarter here, so when I found a book of one hundred and one poems, I was elated and decided that it was well worth the coinage.  (It actually made me a bit sad really, and I'm sure that the greats in the book like Emerson, Wordsworth and Hemingway were crying too.)

When I returned home from that rummage sale, I had carelessly tossed these books onto my already overloaded bookshelves (oh, the meager complaints of a book addict) to collect dust and make friends with other paperbacks and hardbacks that had long been forgotten and yet still on my to-read list.

Recently, I rediscovered this gem (check out the pic below) on a spring cleaning spree of my overloaded bookshelves.  I decided to bust it out - finally - and make myself read one poem every morning. It's been working out quite well and the above quote resonated with my own genre and has lingered with me throughout the day.

Thank you, Mr. Bourdillon for the insight.
And thank you to my local library for money well spent.