Threads of Grey and Gold — 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?"