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.