Classic Poem

My lady ofttimes chideth me
Because I love so much to be
Amid my honest folios.
" Thou lovest more to pore on those " —
In pretty scorn she sometimes saith —
" Than on thy mistress' eyes, i' faith!
Small good true lovers gain meseems
From dust and must of printed reams. "
Ah! would that I could make her see,
What is so clear to thee and me,
How much our happy love-life owes
To those poor honest folios.
She little dreams that hidden there
I found a glass that mirrored her,
A magic glass which showed her me
As my own soul's ideal She,
Long ere we met and wedded eyes
Or made a soft exchange of sighs.
Nor knoweth she that thence I drew
The thought that, sweet as morning dew
Changeth the leaden life to gold,
And keepeth Love from growing old.
Nor may I tell what things beside
Within those leathern covers hide.
How would she scorn my small deceit,
Dare I confess that fine conceit
That pleased her so the other day,
Was from an old-world roundelay;
And many another charm and grace
That keeps Love young in spite of days,
Was but a bloom that long had lain
'Mid yellow pages young again.