Pile of brown books, upon my bare oak board,
How grim your age-old covers look tonight!
Have I been over-envious of your hoard?
Robbed it too greedily, in mood too light?
Or is it, rather, that, with little care,
Browsing, I have not profited enough
In the rich pastures that your chapters bear?
Or have I treated you with hand too rough?
Let me remember. Ah! the livelong day
To slight enrichment of my soul has gone;
Yet it has passed with you. On me then lay
The blame! and now the pain -- I muse alone.
Closed are the pages that I idly turned;
You frown to chide me for the wasted hours.
Ah! through my window, while the daylight burned.
Over your leaves I saw only flowers.
And now my poor lamp flickers and burns low;
Yet am I unrepenant of my sin.
Grim pile of wisdom, do not scold me so
That I have left a flower your leaves within.
First published in The Bulletin, 01 July 1915
