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We die, with our great thoughts unpublished,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.
Unwritten Books
Henry Lawson
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Poem topics: sun, great, story, beneath, matter, work, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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