If on isle of the sea
 I have to tarry,
With one book, let it be
 A Dictionary.
For though I love life's scene,
 It seems absurd,
My greatest joy has been
 The printed word.

Though painter with delight
 May colours blend,
They are but in his sight
 Means to an end.
Yet while I harmonise
 Or pattern them,
A precious word I prize
 Like to a gem.

A fiddler lures fine tone
 From gut and wood;
A sculptor from stark stone
 Shapes godlihood.
But let me just caress,
 Like silver birds,
For their own loveliness--
 Bewitching words.