Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By Langdon ElwynMitchell

1480 Written at the End of a Book

THIS is the end of the book

Written by God.

I am the earth he took,

I am the sod,

The wood and iron which he struck

With his sounding rod.

I am the reed that he blew:

Once quietly

By the riverside I grew,

Till one day he

Rooted me up and breathed a new

Delirium in me.

Would he had left me there,

Where all is still;

To lean on the heavy air,

Silent, at will

To be, and joy, yet not to share,

The avenging thrill.

I am the reed that he blew,

Which yet he blows,

(For this is his breath too,

And these, like those,

Are his own words blown unto you,

—Hearken if you choose!)

This is the end of the book;

And, if you read

Ought that is evil, why, look,

I but obeyed,

—When deep his voice in my ear shook,

I blew as he said!