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Books, books, books! I had found the secret of a garret room Piled high with cases in my father's name; Piled high' packed large,--where, creeping in and out Among the giant fossils of my past, Like some small nimble mouse between the ribs Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there At this or that box, pulling through the gap, In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy, The first book first. And how I felt it beat Under my pillow, in the morning''s dark, An hour before the sun would let me read! My books! At last, because the time was ripe, I chanced upon the poets.