Out of the closet

Books, books, books had found the secret of a garret-room piled high with cases in my father’s name; Piled high, packed large – where, creeping in and out among the giant fossils of my past, like some small nimble mouse between the ribs of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there at this or that box, pulling through the gap, in heats of terror, haste, victorious joy, the first book first.
And how I felt it beat under my pillow, in the morning’s dark.
An hour before the sun would let me read!
My books!

– Elizabeth Barrett Browning

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