1 AT OUTSET

Depart, depart, my book! and live and die Dependent on the idle fantasy Of men who cannot view you, quite, as I For I am fond, and willingly mistake My book to be the book I meant to make, And cannot judge you, for that phantom’s sake. Yet pardon me if I have wrought too ill In making you, that never spared the will To shape you perfectly, and lacked the skill. Ah, had I but the power, my book, then I Had wrought in you some wizardry so high That no man but had listened.... They pass by, And shrug—as we, who know that unto us It has been granted never to fare thus, And never to be strong and glorious. Is it denied me to perpetuate What so much loving labor did create?— I hear Oblivion tap upon the gate, And acquiesce, not all disconsolate. FOR I HAVE GOT SUCH RECOMPENSE OF THAT HIGH-HEARTED EXCELLENCE WHICH THE CONTENTED CRAFTSMAN KNOWS, ALONE, THAT TO LOVED LABOR GOES, AND DAILY DOES THE WORK HE CHOSE, AND COUNTS ALL ELSE IMPERTINENCE!