Even closets supposed to be devoted to pails and dust-cloths "have
three shelves for books and one for pails." In his own bedroom, where
the exquisite portrait of his wife by Rowse hangs over the fireplace,
there is a small bookcase near his bed which contains a choice
collection of the English poets. Vaughan, Henry King, and others of
that lovely company of the past. These were his most intimate friends.
In the copy of Henry King, I found the following lines marked by him
in "The Exequy:"--

"Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed,
Never to be disquieted!

My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake,
Till I thy fate shall overtake;
Till age, or grief, or sickness, must
Marry my body to the dust
It so much loves."

His daughter says, "This library was carefully arranged by subjects;
and although no catalogue was ever made, he was never at a loss where
to look for any needed volume. His books were deeply beloved and
tenderly handled."

Such was Craigie House and such was the poet's life within it from the
beginning to the end. "His poetry was not worked out from his brain,"
his daughter again writes, and who should know better than herself!
"it was the blossoming of his inward life."

In a brief paper upon Longfellow written by Mr. William Winter I find
the universal sentiment towards him more fully and tenderly expressed,