TAKE it, reader, idly passing, <br />This, like other idle lines; <br />Take it, critic, great at classing <br />Subtle genius and its signs: <br />But, O reader, be thou dumb; <br />Critic, let no sharp wit come; <br />For the hand that wrote and blurred <br />Will not write another word; <br />And the soul you scorn or prize, <br />Now than angels is more wise. <br /> <br />Take it, heart of man or woman, <br />This unfinished broken strain, <br />Whether it be poor or common <br />Or the noblest work of brain; <br />Let that good heart only sit <br />Now in judgment over it <br />Tenderly, as we would read,-- <br />Any one, of any creed, <br />Any churchyard passing by,-- <br />'Sacred to the Memory. <br /> <br />Wholly sacred: even as lingers <br />Final word, or last look cast. <br />Or last clasp of life-warm fingers, <br />Which we knew not was the last. <br />Or, as we apart do lay, <br />The day after funeral-day, <br />Their dear relics, great and small, <br />Who need nothing--yet win all: <br />All the best we had and have, <br />Buried in one silent grave. <br /> <br />All our highest aspirations, <br />And our closest love of loves; <br />Our most secret resignations, <br />Our best work that man approves, <br />Yet which jealously we keep <br />In our mute heart's deepest deep. <br />So of this poor broken song <br />Let no echoes here prolong: <br />For the singer's voice is known <br />In the heaven of heavens alone.<br /><br />Dinah Maria Mulock Craik<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-unfinished-book/
