The Old Book

I chanced upon it but to-day;

While searching in a dusty nook,

And found, though long since hid away,

This old and small moth-eaten book.

A page, discoloured, greyish-brown;

Is pencil-marked and folded down.

And now back, back through deeps of blank into a day of happy dreams;

Two humid eyes gaze into mine, a sweet face through the darkness beams — And that is all.

A ghost of age,

Appearing from a time-worn page.

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