Chapter VIII: Epilogue: To a Book of Unimportant Verses

An unfair title that forestalls

The judgment of my peers,

An after title that recalls

The hopes of other years,

When words were flowers beside the way,

And the world in rhythm ran,

And grief was dainty, and love was play,

And the breath of death, would scan,

And all the long results of time

Were captives of a happy rhyme.

FINIS

The wind and the rain

And the sunshine again

And the murmur of flies at the window pane!

I weave my rhymes

In the morning betimes,

And it all creeps in with the faint word chimes.

For the wind is there,

Wet skies and fair,

And the buzz of the flies there too somewhere,

And there is the beat

Of the passers' feet

Gone echoing down the hidden street.

End of Project Gutenberg's Harps Hung Up In Babylon, by Arthur Colton