Poems (Curwen)/The Book of the Year, 1896

by Annie Isabel Curwen

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.

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.

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.

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?

I know not, but I think that He,
 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.

And His compassionate eyes will dwell
 Upon the mark of fallen tears,
And, like a tender parent, He'll
 Forgive us, when he sees our fears;

And from us the old volume take,
 Without a question or rebuke,
Bidding His great Librarian lend
 To us another new clean book.