The Frost is the real thing — the 1949 first trade edition of Complete Poems of Robert Frost, Henry Holt, New York, green cloth with gold-stamped script, every poem you memorized in school and all the ones you didn't.
But open her cover first. On the flyleaf, in ink that's held for seventy-five years:
November 28, 1951 — To my Honey, who gets sweeter every year. — John.
Somebody loved somebody, and this was the gift.
Her dust jacket is long gone; the inscription is worth ten of it.
