The Little Old Poem that Nobody Reads

The little old poem that nobody reads / Blooms in a crowded space, / Like a ground-vine blossom, so low in the weeds / That nobody sees its face -- / Unless, perchance, the reader's eye / Stares through a yawn, and hurries by, / For no one wants, or loves, or heeds, / The little old poem that nobody reads.

The little old poem that nobody reads / Was written -- where? -- and when? / Maybe a hand of goodly deeds / Thrilled as it held the pen: / Maybe the fountain whence it came / Was a heart brimmed o'er with tears of shame, / And maybe its creed is the worst of creeds -- / The little old poem that nobody reads.

But, little old poem that nobody reads, / Holding you here above / The wound of a heart that warmly bleeds / For all that knows not love, / I well believe if the old World knew / As dear a friend as I find in you, / That friend would tell it that all it needs / Is the little old poem that nobody reads.