The poem
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, 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.