This is the book. For evil and for good, What my life was in it is written plain. These are no dreams, but things of flesh and blood, The past that lived and shall not live again. This is the book. I dare not bid you read. Too much of my poor soul you would unlock. Your own soul, if it tender were, might bleed. I could not bear that you should only mock. My life lies here. And yet in vain, dear heart, The tale is told. One page it yearns to see, One play where one best actor should find part. But that, alas for love! shall never be. Yet, if a sign you seek between these lines, One hidden lies for you, a sign of signs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PSALM 139 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE HOLY THURSDAY, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE SECOND BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 18 by THOMAS CAMPION THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE MOWER'S SONG by ANDREW MARVELL THE LOVER TO THE THAMES OF LONDON TO FAVOUR HIS LADY ... by GEORGE TURBERVILLE AN AUTOGRAPH (1) by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER |