The Book Of Love

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Title:     The Book Of Love
Author: Myrtle Reed [More Titles by Reed]

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?"

[The end]
Myrtle Reed's poem: Book Of Love

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