The imperfect thing or thought,
the fervid yeastliness of youth,
The dubious doubt, the twilight truth,
The work that for the passing day was wrought,
The schemes that came to naught,
The sketch half-way twixt verse and prose,
That mocks the finished picture true,
The splinters whence the statue grew,
The scaffolding 'neath which the palace rose,
The vague abortive throes,
And crudities of joy or gloom:--
In kind oblivion let them be!
Nor has the dead worse foe than he
Who rakes these sweepings of the artist's room,
And piles them on his tomb.
When I read this the first few times I didn't get it. After further thought, I think I found his meaning. Each of us, on our journey, starts, stops, aborts and concludes many endeavors.
It is not always pretty as we begin a work, and the process itself may leave refuse, but one must not judge a person by the refuse, but rather the intent and finished project. Whadaya think?