Page:Captain Craig; a book of poems.djvu/143

Rh On sheets that he had bound up like a book And covered with red leather. There it was— There in his desk, the record he had made, The spiritual plaything of his life: There were the words no eyes had ever seen Save his; there were the words that were not made For glory or for gold. The pretty wife Whom he had loved and lost had not so much As heard of them. They were not made for her. His love had been so much the life of her, And hers had been so much the life of him, That any wayward phrasing on his part Would have had no moment. Neither had lived enough To know the book, albeit one of them Had grown enough to write it. There it was, However, though he knew not why it was: There was the book, but it was not for her, For she was dead. And yet, there was the book.

Thus would his fancy circle out and out, And out and in again, till he would make As if with a large freedom to crush down Those under-thoughts. He covered with his hands His tired eyes, and waited: he could hear—