I bought a book of poetry at an antique store last weekend. It was published in 1936. Sometime between then and now someone read through all of the poems and annotated them, including their interpretation of the meaning of each. It's a strange thing to read a poem, find a certain message in it, and then compare that to what this person was thinking, oh, maybe seventy years prior. Sometimes we were thinking the same things. I like picking up this book knowing that it's been so carefully studied and appreciated before.
Here's one of my favorites from the poet Amy Lowell-
A Gift
See! I give myself to you, Beloved!
My words are little jars
For you to take and put upon a shelf.
Their shapes are quaint and beautiful,
And they have many pleasant colours and lustres
To recommend them.
Also the scent from them fills the room
With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses.
When I shall have given you the last one,
You will have the whole of me,
But I shall be dead.
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