236
THE UNFINISHED BOOK.
THE UNFINISHED BOOK.
AKE it, reader, idly passing,This, like other idle lines;
Take it, critic, great at classing
Subtle gen ins and its signs:
But, reader, be thou dumb;
Critic, let no sharp wit come;
For the hand that wrote and blurred
Will not write another word;
And the soul you scorn or prize,
Now than angels is more wise.
Take it, heart of man or woman,
This unfinished broken strain,
Whether it be poor and common
Or the noblest work of brain;
Let that good heart only sit
Now in judgment over it
Tenderly, as we would read,—
Any one, of any creed,
Any churchyard passing by,—
"Sacred to the Memory."
This unfinished broken strain,
Whether it be poor and common
Or the noblest work of brain;
Let that good heart only sit
Now in judgment over it
Tenderly, as we would read,—
Any one, of any creed,
Any churchyard passing by,—
"Sacred to the Memory."
Wholly sacred: even as lingers
Final word, or last look cast.
Final word, or last look cast.
