a counteruniformitariansism weblog



It's slim and trim and bound in blue;
It's leaves are crisp and edged in gold;
It's words are simple, stalwart too;
It's thoughts are tender, wise and bold.
It's pages scintillate with wit;
It's 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 to 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,
The Little Book I Never Wrote.
Poor ghost! For homes you failed to cheer,
For grieving hearts uncomforted,
Don't haunt me now....Alas! I fear
The fire of inspiration's dead.
A humdrum way I go to-night,
From all I hoped and dreamed remote;
Too late....a better man must write
That Little Book I Never Wrote.

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