When this book, unread,
Rots to earth obscurely,
And no more to any breast, Close against the clamorous swelling
Of the thing there is no telling,
Are these pages pressed!
When this book is mould,
And a book of many
Waiting to be sold
For a casual penny, In a little open case,
In a street unclean and cluttered, Where a heavy mud is spattered
From the passing drays,Stranger, pause and look;
From the dust of ages Lift this little book,
Read me, do not let me die!
Search the fading letters, finding 
Steadfast in the broken binding 
All that once was I!
poem excerpt from Edna Saint Vincent Millay's The Poet and His Book
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