Nor did he have much better luck with the other three books.

It was not that his brain was weak or incapable; it could think these thoughts were it not for lack of training in thinking and lack of the thought-tools with which to think.

He guessed this, and for a while entertained the idea of reading nothing but the dictionary until he had mastered every word in it.
Poetry, however, was his solace, and he read much of it, finding his greatest joy in the simpler poets, who were more understandable.

He loved beauty, and there he found beauty.

Poetry, like music, stirred him profoundly, and, though he did not know it, he was preparing his mind for the heavier work that was to come.