By Robert Service
It's slim and trim and bound in blue;
Its leaves are crisp and edged with gold;
Its words are simple, stalwart too;
Its thoughts are tender, wise and bold.
Its pages scintillate with wit;
Its pathos clutches at my throat:
Oh, how I love each line of it!
That Little Book I Never Wrote.
In dreams I see it praised and prized
By all, from plowman unto peer;
It's pencil-marked and memorized,
It's loaned (and not returned, I fear);
It's worn and torn and travel-tossed,
And even dusky natives quote
That classic that the world has lost,
That Little Book I Never Wrote.
Poor ghost! For homes you've failed to cheer,
For grieving hearts unconforted,
Don't haunt me now...Alas! I fear
The fire of Inspiration's dead.
A numdrum way I go to-night,
From all I hoped and dreamed remote:
Too late... a better man (or woman) must write
That Little Book I Never Wrote.
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