 | Jones Very : The Complete Poems |  |
The Book of Life
My hands have long been busy cutting from eachDay's paper the short tale or verse, that told
To many that around me dwell the shade of grief,
Or note of joy; as to my opening eye
They flitted half-seen by. These pasted in
The blank pages of my unfilled book stand as
Life's true memorial. There every word
The heart unconscious uttered, finding wings,
Has flown to sing of its sweet birth. As birds
From out some thicket scaped to tell to the open
568
Bower. There live! the record of the Past!
To tell of him who from his labors ceased
Enjoys the goodman's rest forevermore.
Poem No. 338; date unknown
| Jones Very : The Complete Poems | |