the book of the year, 1896.
189
The Book of the Year, 1896.
Sadly, and half reluctantly, we turn
The last leaf of the volume o'er to-night,
Soiled and worn are the pages which
A year ago were so clean and white.
The last leaf of the volume o'er to-night,
Soiled and worn are the pages which
A year ago were so clean and white.
Crisp and fresh from the printers' hand,
Into our care this book was given,
A loan from the Librarian, Time,
Lent from the library of Heaven.
Into our care this book was given,
A loan from the Librarian, Time,
Lent from the library of Heaven.
Now 'tis blotted with fallen tears,
Crumpled and soiled with many a stain,
And to-night the Master biddeth us
Return the volume to Him again.
Crumpled and soiled with many a stain,
And to-night the Master biddeth us
Return the volume to Him again.
Ah! me, what will he to us say?
And what excuses shall be ours,
When we deliver up this book—
This year's book of days and hours?
And what excuses shall be ours,
When we deliver up this book—
This year's book of days and hours?
I know not, but I think that He,
The Infinite, will understand,
And, like a pitying father, take
The battered volume from our hand:
The Infinite, will understand,
And, like a pitying father, take
The battered volume from our hand:
Knowing that in our thoughtlessness,
Like little children, we have lain
Our heedless fingers on the book,
Thus causing many a needless stain.
Like little children, we have lain
Our heedless fingers on the book,
Thus causing many a needless stain.
