My work is finished that has been to me br My only solace for this many a day. br But whether it in other company br May so beguile the time and hue the ray br Of loneliness and thought, I dare not say; br Nor whether with the future it shall be br A thing of note, nor whether presently br ’Tis doomed to waste like a thin mist away. br Yet whatsoever be its worldly lot, br I know that, hive-like, it with love is stored, br And that through all its pages I have not br Written one wilfully misleading word, br Or traced one feeling that my heart ignored— br One line that truth has counselled me to blot.