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: