Unwritten Books Poem by Henry Lawson

Unwritten Books

Rating: 2.7


It always seems the same old story –
No matter what grand heights are won –
We die with out best work unwritten,
We die with out best work undone.

Unwritten books, unpainted pictures
In millions are, beneath the sun.
We die, with our great thoughts unpublished,
We die with our best work undone.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Henry Lawson

Henry Lawson

Grenfell, New South Wales
Close
Error Success