I’ve torn a leaf from my diary,

And used it to make a list,

Of things I’ve to do on the morrow,

Of things that are not to be missed.

But what of the page that was torn out?

When I get there, what will be gone?

On that day I could have been writing,

My opus, my story, my song.

And now I must leave a page wanting,

And never know what might have been,

I must skip to the next page, hoping,

I won’t miss what remains unseen.