“Idle and light are many things you see
In these my closing pages: blame not me.
However rich and plenteous the repast,
Nuts, almonds, biscuits, wafers come at last.”
Something about the poem, perhaps the references to food, reminds me of Charles Lamb, that congenial recluse and dedicated antiquarian, who writes in a letter dated Dec. 10, 1796, to his childhood friend Coleridge: “I can only converse with you by letter and with the dead in their books.” A month later he writes to the same correspondent: “Books are to me instead of friends.”