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.