Poetry as an object

There is something about a book that is pure poetry in and of itself, in physical form. Of course, often there is wonderful poetry within as well, such as this great little piece from a 1936 edition of Rachel Field's Fear Is The Thorn:

Black Alder Berry

Under mid-winter skies I stood
Before red berries by a wood.
With these two eyes I saw them plain
Strung on bare twigs like scarlet rain.
There in that withered, frosty field
My throat went dry, my senses reeled,
And who I was and why I came
I could not say. My very name
Was lost to me -- I only knew
Color that breaks the heart in two.