My strange author

I have often been asked to prepare an autobiography, but my objections to the task have ever been many and various. To one urgent appeal I sent this sonnet of refusal, which explains itself:-

"You bid me write the story of my life,

And draw what secrets in my memory dwell

From the dried fountains of her failing well,

With commonplaces mixt of peace and strife,

And such small facts, with good or evil rife,

As happen to us all: I have no tale

Of thrilling force or enterprise to tell,-

Nothing the blood to fire, the cheek to pale:

My life is in my books: the record there,

A truthful photograph, is all I choose

To give the world of self; nor will excuse

Mine own or others' failures: glad to spare

From blame of mine, or praise, both friends and foes,