I've read some poems I'd written long ago,
Tenderly kept by one I love most dear,
And through them I've come to once again know,
Old feelings which inspired both warmth and fear.

For a moment I saw my love revived,
And was engulfed by growing tenderness,
There was much power in words which survived,
To pay mute homage to past happiness.

Yellowing, crinkled paper brought to me,
Glimpses of young, unbridled, simple love,
The awkward, fading words helped me to see,
That I have lived the dream I'm dreaming of.

How can I feel this painful emptiness,
When by enduring love I am so blessed?