My Masterpiece

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,

The Little Book I Never Wrote.

Poor ghost! For homes you've failed to cheer,

For grieving hearts uncomforted,

Do n'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.