Go , little book, with heart of rhyme,
This is our last leave-taking time:
For you the journey stretches long,
With naught to cheer you save a song;
For me, alas! when you depart,
A doubtful, desolated heart.
I have but slender hope to give
To gladden such a fugitive.
The world may greet you well or ill,
Seeing your way lies all up hill:
But o'er that summit dim and far
I catch a glimpse of one sure star
Which shines to guide you and to bring
You ever closer there to sing.
Little I care for praise or blame
Unless it whispers of her name:
Her praise is inspiration's breath;
Her scorn were aspiration's death!
Go, then, and if she welcome you
I care not what the world may do!