As barren fields in wintertime are lined
With broken stalks and ears of corn long spent,
So records are the stubble of mankind --
They have no life, and give no nourishment.
They are the words and numbers of the past,
The dry, misshapen kernels in the bran,
Like chaff stripped from the germ, they cannot last --
Yet you do make them feed the mind of Man.
Then hearty, golden grains these records be:
They are the endless grist of History.