书店里的独裁者-教授-诗人阿诺·多米尼1972一个疯狂的书柜，放在一个低价经销商敞开的门前;这一行是一群衣衫褴褛的诗句和散文，他们是无家可归的流浪者、流浪儿和流浪者，他们的地位低下，这一行暴露了他们的地位低下(把较小的鸟儿带到石灰里去)。喂!经销商;为了它的座右铭，我从架子上取下这个稻草人;三卷饥饿的书合二为一，封面在阳光下扭曲。我觉得它有股霉味，我不太喜欢它的味道，但约里克的脑子一点也不迟钝，尽管哈姆雷特呸!说着，他的头盖骨掉了下去。哎呀，下雨了!天暗下来了，——那是雷声吗?听! The shop affords a safe retreat, A chair extends its welcome seat, The tradesman has a civil look (I 've paid, impromptu, for my book), The clouds portend a sudden shower,-- I 'll read my purchase for an hour. What have I rescued from the shelf? A Boswell, writing out himself! For though he changes dress and name, The man beneath is still the same, Laughing or sad, by fits and starts, One actor in a dozen parts, And whatsoe'er the mask may be, The voice assures us, This is he. I say not this to cry him down; I find my Shakespeare in his clown, His rogues the selfsame parent own; Nay! Satan talks in Milton's tone! Where'er the ocean inlet strays, The salt sea wave its source betrays; Where'er the queen of summer blows, She tells the zephyr, 'I'm the rose!' And his is not the playwright's page; His table does not ape the stage; What matter if the figures seen Are only shadows on a screen, He finds in them his lurking thought, And on their lips the words he sought, Like one who sits before the keys And plays a tune himself to please. And was he noted in his day? Read, flattered, honored? Who shall say? Poor wreck of time the wave has cast To find a peaceful shore at last, Once glorying in thy gilded name And freighted deep with hopes of fame, Thy leaf is moistened with a tear, The first for many a long, long year. For be it more or less of art That veils the lowliest human heart Where passion throbs, where friendship glows, Where pity's tender tribute flows, Where love has lit its fragrant fire, And sorrow quenched its vain desire, For me the altar is divine, Its flame, its ashes,--all are mine! And thou, my brother, as I look And see thee pictured in thy book, Thy years on every page confessed In shadows lengthening from the west, Thy glance that wanders, as it sought Some freshly opening flower of thought, Thy hopeful nature, light and free, I start to find myself in thee! . . . . . . . . . . . Come, vagrant, outcast, wretch forlorn In leather jerkin stained and torn, Whose talk has filled my idle hour And made me half forget the shower, I'll do at least as much for you, Your coat I'll patch, your gilt renew, Read you--perhaps--some other time. Not bad, my bargain! Price one dime!