Classic Poem

Only a book, so worn and old —
With broken back and wrinkled face —
That under its rags you barely trace
The sacred story, for ages told,
Of future joys not bought with gold.
And yet those tattered lids embrace
The hope of all the human race,
Which the deaf and dumb and blind may hold
Along with the child and white-haired sage.
'T is greater than kings, more wise than seers;
The compass of youth and comfort of age.
And who shall care how the skeptic sneers,
When behind each torn and grimy page
The smiling face of God appears?