Cover

You scorn the book whose cover is charred,
Disdaining every mark;
Not seeing that the streaks which spoil it
Are the markings made by scars!

You do not know the stories
A broken book may tell:
The days of pain she journeyed through,
Her little taste of hell—

Don’t judge the streaks you have not read
Until you know their cause,
Or you will trash the precious treasure
That hidden ’neath the flaws.