'UNCUT. The Rare First Issue.' Let Who will deride our tremulous Fond joy when on our sheet we set The latest of our honours thus. We do not argue. But we know Not vain the charms nor fugitive That freshly from the numbers flow When on their primal page they live. Here is the gentle chronicle Of all such virtues in your mind; Yet here, for all we know it well, One little book they shall not find. It is of old affection writ, Of courtesy that counted not The severing years; the theme of it Has never known design or plot. 'Mint copy. Perfect.' And when age -- (So the Great Printer shall I thank) -- From 'Finis' turns the final page, We shall not find the verso blank. |