S. C. K. S.

A book's end is the end of many hopes;

Much good endeavour; certain hours of stress

When brain and spirit fail, and laziness

Thralls the poor body — yet the purpose gropes

Athwart it all, and as the horseman cheers

His tired beast with chirrup, spur, and goad

Towards his home along the heavy road,

So drives us purpose till the end appears.

Read it who may! Find more or less of good

Within its covers, but at least find this:

Glad service to a great and noble aim

That may be striven for, and understood,

And fallen short of — so not quite we miss

In our small lamp of clay Truth's very flame.