John James Piatt (1835–1917)

IF I could write a book made sweet with thee

(Oh, therefore sweet with all that may be sweet!)

With lingering music, nevermore complete,

Should turn its golden pages: each should be

Like whispering voice, or beckoning hand; and he

Who read should follow (while his heart would beat

For some new miracle), with most eager feet,

Through sacred labyrinths of mystery.

Temple and lighted home of love should seem

The Book wherein my love remembered thine.

These holiest visions evermore should gleam,

Vanishing wings, with wandering souls of sound,

And breaths of incense from an inmost shrine,

Sought nearer evermore, and never found.