Soft shafts of light, spilled across the room,

They cast a glow on everything, shining like the moon,

I took a faded book down from the dusty shelf,

And leafed through its old pages, admiring its wealth.

There were: lyrics, sonnets and poems, held within,

Some were about women, most about men,

But when I got to the final page, and saw to my surprise,

The last of all the poems was called, simply: