Brilliant and crowded are the kingdoms on the
Shelf; many the written versions of the self.
The child I was lived in the stories people
Tell, wandered through many kingdoms, loved them
Well, grieved like a pauper, nose against the
Glass, because no one could read all, even
Reading fast. Then one day found no matter
What the name all books are only volumes of the
Same, and all the many versions on the shelf
Tell the same story. Whether prose or rhyme,
It is a story she knew all the time.