The End of the Book

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