 | Blackberries |  |
To a Writer.
Show me just thy real thought,
Tell me how it is with thee;
Count not up the value brought;
What the value is to me
Thou that bringest may'st not see.
Strain not manner and selection
To impossible perfection;
Let the work be frankly wrought.
Tell me how it is with thee;
Count not up the value brought;
What the value is to me
Thou that bringest may'st not see.
Strain not manner and selection
To impossible perfection;
Let the work be frankly wrought.
But its faults must be thine own,
Not the twist of sloven tools,
Not of skin, but bred in bone,
Folly undevised of fools,
Ignorance not learnt in schools.
No great task—an easy giving!
Just a book that's warm and living,
Not mere painted mist or stone.
Not the twist of sloven tools,
Not of skin, but bred in bone,
Folly undevised of fools,
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No great task—an easy giving!
Just a book that's warm and living,
Not mere painted mist or stone.
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