It's Slim And Trim And Bound In Blue; Its Leaves Are Crisp And Edged With Gold; Its Words Are Simple, Stalwart Too; Its Thoughts Are Tender, Wise And Bold. Its Pages Scintillate With Wit; Its Pathos Clutches At My Throat: Oh, How I Love Each Line Of It! That Little Book I Never Wrote. In Dreams I See It Praised And Prized By All, From Plowman Unto Peer; It's Pencil-Marked And Memorized, It's Loaned (And Not Returned, I Fear); It's Worn And Torn And Travel-Tossed, And Even Dusky Natives Quote That Classic That The World Has Lost, The Little Book I Never Wrote. Poor Ghost! For Homes You've Failed To Cheer, For Grieving Hearts Uncomforted, Don't Haunt Me Now. . . . Alas! I Fear The Fire Of Inspiration'S Dead. A Humdrum Way I Go To-Night, From All I Hoped And Dreamed Remote: Too Late . . . A Better Man Must Write That Little Book I Never Wrote.