Books are alcohol to me, Vice reformers should prohibit, Cause of each deficiency That you see my life exhibit. Books have made me fretful, odd, Soured my in-born good nature, Made me disbelieve in God, And abhor my fellow creature. Books have made me pale and lame, Weak of back, of a digestion That find eating but a game For some hygienic question. Lay a book upon my breast, When life's agony is over: I shall find a strange dead zest From the contact of the cover. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SUNRISE SONG by SIDNEY LANIER THE EAGLE'S SONG by RICHARD MANSFIELD TASTE, AN EPISTLE TO A YOUNG CRITIC by JOHN ARMSTRONG THE ALBATROSS by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE CLOUD-CLIMBING by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON ETHINTHUS, QUEEN OF WATERS by WILLIAM BLAKE |