Meanwhile a new life seemed suddenly to have animated the poet’s frame. His eyes shone, and he struggled to raise himself in the bed. The lawyer packed the pillows at his back, and he sat up.
“Put them at the end of the bed,” he said; “let me see them all, let me touch them....”
When his wish had been carried out, and the servants departed, he leaned over the books and stroked them affectionately again and again.
“So you are really mine--really my children,” he said.
“Did I really write them?” he said, presently, turning to his friend. “So many?”
“Yes! dear friend, you wrote them all,” answered the lawyer, too solemnised to jest; for he saw that it was close on the turning of the tide.
“How many are there?” asked Wasteneys, leaning back, already weary with the excitement.
“I will count them ...” said his friend, and presently announced that there were fifty-three volumes.
“Fifty-three!” exclaimed Wasteneys; “and how old am I?”
“Thirty-nine, next month,” said the lawyer.
“Read me a page here and there,” he said; “I will be my own critic. Even a critic at the point of death may be expected to tell the truth. Read to me that I may know before I die that something in all those fifty-three volumes may perhaps be worth while.”
“What of the Darkness? Is it very fair? Are there great calms, and find ye silence there? Like soft-shut lilies, all your faces glow With some strange peace our faces never know, With some great faith our faces never dare, Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?
“Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie? Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry? Is it a Hand to still the pulse’s leap? Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep? Day shows us not such comfort anywhere-- Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?
“Out of the day’s deceiving light we call-- Day that shows man so great, and God so small, That hides the stars, and magnifies the grass-- O is the Darkness too a lying glass? Or, undistracted, do ye find truth there? What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?”
“Are you quite sure that I wrote that?” Asked the poet. “Look carefully. Is it really my book?”
“It is, indeed. Printed when you were twenty.”
“I am so happy,” said the poet--“so happy to think I wrote that. Time itself cannot rob me of that.”