Bright Bindings

Your love to me was like an unread book, 
Bright-backed, with smooth white pages yet unslit; 
Fondly as a lover, foolishly, I took 
It from its shelf one day and opened it. 
Here shall I read, I thought, beauty and grace, 
The soul’s most high and awful poetry;— 
Alas for lovers and the faith they place 
In love, alas for you, alas for me. 

I have but read a page or two at most, 
The most my horror-blinded eyes may read. 
I find here but a windy tapering ghost 
Where I sought flesh gifted to ache and bleed. 
Yet back you go, though counterfeit you be. 
I love bright books even when they fail me.