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?”