The Book of Love
I dreamt I saw an angel in the night,
And she held forth Love’s book, limned o’er with gold,
That I might read of days of chivalry
And how men’s hearts were wont to thrill of old.
Half wondering, I turned the musty leaves,
For Love’s book counts out centuries as years,
And here and there a page shone out undimmed,
And here and there a page was blurred with tears.
I read of Grief, Doubt, Silence unexplained—
Of many-featured Wrong, Distrust, and Blame,
Renunciation—bitterest of all—
And yet I wandered not beyond Love’s name.
At last I cried to her who held the book,
So fair and calm she stood, I see her yet;
“Why write these things within this book of Love?
Why may we not pass onward and forget?”
Her voice was tender when she answered me:
“Half child, half woman, earthy as thou art,
How should’st thou dream that Love is never Love
Unless these things beat vainly on the heart?”