You see that sheaf of slender books <br />Upon the topmost shelf, <br />At which no browser ever looks, <br />Because they're by . . . myself; <br />They're neatly bound in navy blue, <br />But no one ever heeds; <br />Their print is clear and candid too, <br />Yet no one ever reads. <br /> <br />Poor wistful books! How much they cost <br />To me in time and gold! <br />I count them now as labour lost, <br />For none I ever sold; <br />No copy could I give away, <br />For all my friends would shrink, <br />And look at me as if to say: <br />"What waste of printer's ink!" <br /> <br />And as I gaze at them on high, <br />Although my eyes are sad, <br />I cannot help but breathe a sigh <br />To think what joy I had - <br />What ecstasy as I would seek <br />To make my rhyme come right, <br />And find at last the phrase unique <br />Flash fulgent in my sight. <br /> <br />Maybe that rapture was my gain <br />Far more than cheap success; <br />So I'll forget my striving vain, <br />And blot out bitterness. <br />Oh records of my radiant youth, <br />No broken heart I'll rue, <br />For all my best of love and truth <br />Is there, alive in you.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/amateur-poet/
