A Worn-Out Pencil.

Welladay! Here I lay You at rest—all worn away, O my pencil, to the tip Of our old companionship! Memory Sighs to see What you are, and used to be, Looking backward to the time When you wrote your earliest rhyme!— When I sat Filing at Your first point, and dreaming that Your initial song should be Worthy of posterity. With regret I forget If the song be living yet, Yet remember, vaguely now, It was honest, anyhow. You have brought Me a thought— Truer yet was never taught,— That the silent song is best, And the unsung worthiest. So if I, When I die, May as uncomplainingly Drop aside as now you do, Write of me, as I of you:— Here lies one Who begun Life a-singing, heard of none; And he died, satisfied, With his dead songs by his side.