The Last Proof

An Epilogue To Any Book 'FINIS at last--the end, the End, the END! No more of paragraphs to prune or mend; No more blue pencil, with its ruthless line, To blot the phrase 'particularly fine'; No more of 'slips,' and 'galleys,' and 'revises,' Of words 'transmogrified,' and 'wild surmises'; No more of _n_'s that masquerade as _u_'s, No nice perplexities of _p_'s and _q_'s; No more mishaps of _ante_ and of _post_, That most mislead when they should help the most; No more of 'friend' as 'fiend,' and 'warm' as 'worm'; No more negations where we would affirm; No more of those mysterious freaks of fate That make us bless when we should execrate; No more of those last blunders that remain Where we no more can set them right again; No more apologies for doubtful data; No more fresh facts that figure as Errata; No more, in short, O TYPE, of wayward lore From thy most _un_-Pierian fount--NO MORE!' So spoke PAPYRIUS. Yet his hand meanwhile Went vaguely seeking for the vacant file, Late stored with long array of notes, but now Bare-wired and barren as a leafless bough;-- And even as he spoke, his mind began Again to scheme, to purpose and to plan. There is no end to Labour 'neath the sun; There is no end of labouring--but One; And though we 'twitch (or not) our Mantle blue,' 'To-morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.'