To a Friend Without a Name
Through lazy summer afternoons
I wreathed slow thought to unsung tunes.
And you some winter evening may
Take up my finished book and say
'This molten thought was his who wrought
No less the thoughts of other men - '
Or, closing, curse too feeble verse,
The penned, the penman, and the pen.
No matter what you think or do
This book is yours and made for you
Take it and read it through.