FOR A BLANK PAGE
BY AUSTIN DOBSON
LIFE, like a page unpenned,
Spreads out its whiteness,
Nothing, from end to end,
Marring its brightness.
Surely a field to claim
Steadfast endeavor?
Where one might win a name
Vocal forever?
Now—to review it all—
What a prosaic,
Patched, unmethodical,
Paltry mosaic!
Plans that ne’er found a base;
Wingless up-yearning;
Speed, that ne’er won the race;
Fire, without burning;
Doubt never set at rest,
Stifle or falter it;
Good, that was not the best—
Yet, would you alter it?
Yet, would you tread again
All the road over?
Face the old joy and pain—
Hemlock and clover?
Yes: for it still was good,
Good to be living;
Buoyant of heart and blood,
Fighting, forgiving;
Glad for the earth and sky,
Glad—for mere gladness;
Grateful, one knew not why,
Even for sadness;
Finding a ray of hope
Gleam through distresses;
Building a larger scope
Out from successes;
Careless of loss and gain,
Rendering ever,
Both for the joy and pain,
Thanks to the Giver.
So, though the script is slow,
Faint though the line is,
Let the poor record go,
Onward to Finis.
From a photograph by Pach
THE MORGAN LIBRARY, EAST THIRTY-SIXTH STREET, NEW YORK
(Architects, McKim, Mead, and White)