My old roommate from when I was 18 (I am 23 now) decided to return some things that I'd forgotten in her house years ago. When I was 18 I was a writer in the sense I'd carry a fancy notebook, but had no thoughts of my own to fill them with. I collected fancy books, but I didn't read them. Anyways, my old roommate gave me an old box filled with some of my old things, and I found an old leather bound book that said "Whittier" on it. I could instantly feel my eyes get larger as I flipped open the page to realize I'd had a book of poetry from John Greenleaf Whittier that had been published in 1857. I remember (vaguely) recieving the book when I was15 from my father as a christmas gift, and didn't appreciate it then.
I certainly appreciate it now.
I certainly appreciate it now.
