With A Book

You fain would know the story of my life?
Nay, then you shall divine it from my song—
The weariness of ever-baffled strife;
The Joy that fled, the Grief that lingers long;

The barren shore, laved by the bitter tide;
The vanity of all beneath the sun;
The longing, that Fate's mockery denied;
The triumph unachieved; the goal unwon;

The fleeting moments, vague and sweet and dear
As violets upon a grave that grow:—
Is not the whole vain story written here?
Then turn these leaves, and you my soul shall know.
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