I Believe

When I review the scrap-book of my years,The varied burden that the pages wear,How some stare blackly at me, others bearMeaningless scribblings of forgotten fearsAnd vague presentiments, with here the smearsThat blurred a page with discontent, and thereThe giddy exclamation points that shareMy laughter, hope, and joy; this book, that nearsMy half-mark in composing, is to meNot wholly formless, shapeless, but has seedBuried within it of consistency.When I have done with it, I hold as creed,There will be pattern enough for all who see,And glory of life enough for all who read. —From Dartmouth Verse, 1930, copyrighted by the Arts.