On an Old Book with Uncut Leaves
Emblem of blasted hope and lost desire,No finger ever traced thy yellow pageSave Time’s. Thou hast not wrought to noble rageThe hearts thou wouldst have stirred. Not any fireSave sad flames set to light a funeral pyreDost thou suggest. Nay,—impotent in age,Unsought, thou holdst a corner of the stageAnd ceasest even dumbly to aspire.
How different was the thought of him that writ.What promised he to love of ease and wealth,When men should read and kindle at his wit.But here decay eats up the book by stealth,While it, like some old maiden, solemnly,Hugs its incongruous virginity!