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Lay dusty on a shelf
In stolid library of oak
Words written in olden days
Where chapters often spoke
Of love and beauty
And stars beside waxen moon
Adventures in stories
Some spelt of gloom

Leather bound tomes
By calligraphy hand
Seasons had wintered
Time ran out of sand
Brittle pages held secrets
Not often gazed upon
People who had read them
Had long since gone

Those gold edged leafs
A treasure to behold
Much more valuable
Than silver or gold
A gift from a suitor
In times of courtship
Pressed in its beauty
A rose neatly snipped

Another sheet was yellowed
And aching with time
Written in bold
She had pencilled a line
Time when he needed me
Needeth me most
Tender is our love
When blooms like a rose

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