THE LITTLE OLD POEM THAT NOBODY READS

The little old poem that nobody reads

Blooms in a crowded space,

Like a ground-vine blossom, so low in the weeds

That nobody sees its face —

Unless, perchance, the reader's eye

Stares through a yawn, and hurries by,

For no one wants, or loves, or heeds,

The little old poem that nobody reads.

The little old poem that nobody reads

Was written — where?— and when?

Maybe a hand of goodly deeds

Thrilled as it held the pen:

Maybe the fountain whence it came

Was a heart brimmed o'er with tears of shame,

And maybe its creed is the worst of creeds —

The little old poem that nobody reads.

But, little old poem that nobody reads,

Holding you here above

The wound of a heart that warmly bleeds

For all that knows not love,

I well believe if the old World knew

As dear a friend as I find in you,

That friend would tell it that all it needs

Is the little old poem that nobody reads.