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72 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1975
When I was young they never let me look
Into that room kept under lock and key,
But when he died my Uncle left to me
His strange collection. Almost every book
Was old and crumbling, curiously bound
In serpent-skin, and with a rotten smell
As of some tainted and abandoned well
Or some dead thing long buried underground.
I looked in one. And, though my blood ran cold,
I read it, page by page. The nightwind blew
About the eaves, and when red morning rolled
Up from the east, I finished. And I knew
Those old, old books where not meant to be read
By sane men. They were better burnt instead.