NOT in that he bindeth books - for the fair binding is the final crown and flower of painful achievement - but because he bindeth not: because the weary weeks lapse by and turn to months, and the months to years, and still the bookbinder bindeth not: and the heart grows sick with hope deferred. Each morn the maiden binds her hair, each spring the honeysuckle binds the cottage porch. Each autumn the harvester binds his sheaves, each winter the iron frost binds lake and stream and still the bookbinder bindeth not. And then, a secret voice whispereth: 'Arise, be a man and slay him! Take him grossly, full of bread, with all his crimes broad blown as flush as May; at gaming, swearing, or about some act that hath no relish of salvation in it!'  But when the deed is done, and the floor strewn with fragments of binder - still the books remain unbound...."