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To Young E. Allison–Bookman
by [?]

The bookman he’s a humming-bird–
His feasts are honey-fine,–
(With hi! hilloo!
And clover-dew
And roses lush and rare!)
His roses are the phrase and word
Of olden tomes divine;
(With hi! and ho!
And pinks ablow
And posies everywhere!)
The Bookman he’s a humming-bird,–
He steals from song to song–
He scents the ripest-blooming rhyme,
And takes his heart along
And sacks all sweets of bursting verse
And ballads, throng on throng.
(With ho! and hey!
And brook and brae,
And brinks of shade and shine!)

A humming-bird the Bookman is–
Though cumbrous, gray and grim,–
(With hi! hilloo!
And honey-dew
And odors musty-rare!)
He bends him o’er that page of his
As o’er the rose’s rim.
(With hi! and ho!
And pinks aglow
And roses everywhere!)
Ay, he’s the featest humming-bird,
On airiest of wings
He poises pendent o’er the poem
That blossoms as it sings–
God friend him as he dips his beak
In such delicious things!
(With ho! and hey!
And world away
And only dreams for him!)

O friends of mine, whose kindly words come to me
Voiced only in lost lisps of ink and pen,
If I had power to tell the good you do me,
And how the blood you warm goes laughing through me,
My tongue would babble baby-talk again.

And I would toddle round the world to meet you–
Fall at your feet, and clamber to your knees
And with glad, happy hands would reach and greet you,
And twine my arms about you, and entreat you
For leave to weave a thousand rhymes like these–

A thousand rhymes enwrought of nought but presses
Of cherry-lip and apple-cheek and chin,
And pats of honeyed palms, and rare caresses,
And all the sweets of which as Fancy guesses
She folds away her wings and swoons therein.